


Aetherstorm

by DT Maxwell (Draya)



Series: Coffee & Carbuncles [16]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Academia, Affectionate Insults, Ala Mhigo (Final Fantasy XIV), Alakhai just wants to stab things this saving the world shit is so annoying, Alcohol, Arcanists' Guild, Archery, Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Battle of Carteneau (Final Fantasy XIV), Battle of Rhalgr's Reach, Blow Jobs, Breakfast in Bed, Carbuncle Shenanigans, Cid and Synnove's friendship is seventy-five percent salt and twenty-five percent science, Complicated Dad Feelings, Ehll Tou best dragon daughter!, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explosions, F/M, Female Friendship, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Food Porn, Gen, Gift Giving, Grief/Mourning, Highlander Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Isolde Greywolfe is an absolute bitch and not in a fun way, Lalafell Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Magic and Science, Male-Female Friendship, Mecha, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Multiple Warriors of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Office Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Roegadyn Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Romantic Fluff, Shameless Smut, Spoilers for Ehll Tou's Custom Deliveries, Synnove has Too Many Feelings and they are absolutely projected onto her by me the author, The Sorrow of Werlyt Questline (Final Fantasy XIV) Spoilers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, Verbal Abuse, Vitriolic Friendship, Worldbuilding, and one hundred percent 'i would beat a man to death with a wrench for you', because Ehll Tou is the absolute best, catte mom is best mom, gratuitous The Producers reference, have I mentioned recently that Ehll Tou is in fact the absolute best? because she is., mathematicians love chalk, minor Hilda/Lucia, not enough to be its own proper relationship tag, sorry for yesterday here's more food porn, spicy breakfasts are the best hangover cures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 47,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draya/pseuds/DT%20Maxwell
Summary: Collection of completed and cleaned up prompt fills from the FFXIV Write 2020 hosted on Tumblr. Featuring, as always: the Squad of Light (Synnove Greywolfe, Rereha Reha, Dancing Heron, and Alakhai Noykin); carbuncles for whom physics is now an oft-discarded suggestion; a Lord Commander extraordinaire; the Scions of the Seventh Dawn; the chaosbringers of the Arcanists’ Guild; a dragon quite fond of crafting; and a host of shenanigans accidental and not.Contains spoilers where noted for Shadowbringers through Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal.Prompt 30 [Splinter]:Widow's Lament,or,The Fall of Ala Mhigo.--One chapter will be uploaded daily throughout October, with tags added and rating adjusted as needed. Please refer to the Table of Contents for individual summaries and necessary warnings of previously uploaded chapters.
Relationships: Ardbert & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Aymeric de Borel & Lucia goe Junius, Aymeric de Borel's Cat & Other(s), Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Cid nan Garlond & Nero tol Scaeva, Cid nan Garlond & Warrior of Light, Dulia-Chai & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Ehll Tou & Warrior of Light, Midgardsormr & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Nero tol Scaeva & Warrior of Light, Tataru Taru & Warrior of Light, Valdeaulin & Warrior of Light, Warrior of Light & Thancred Waters, Y'shtola Rhul & Warrior of Light
Series: Coffee & Carbuncles [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/807090
Comments: 222
Kudos: 53
Collections: #FFxivWrite2020 Final Fantasy 30 Day Writing Challenge, Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	1. Table of Contents

**1\. Table of Contents**  
You are here!

 **2.[The Bluebird of Ishgard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65279224#workskin)  
**Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric and Synnove and a date to the finest patisserie in all of Ishgard.

 **3.[Signs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65332798#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Thancred, Tataru, and Rereha, in an explanation of some of the most important hand signs the Squad uses.  
 **WARNINGS:** Alcohol and alcohol consumption; **SPOILERS** for _Shadowbringers_ Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal.

 **4.[Red Sky in the Morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65388127#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Synnove and other members in the Arcanists’ Guild, in the days before the Battle of Carteneau.

 **5.[Iron and Pine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65446054#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Ehll Tou and her first successful carpentry project.  
 **SPOILERS** for Ehll Tou’s Custom Delivery story line.

 **6.[Unscheduled Detonations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65501428#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Synnove and Ivar, and just an average day at AETHEROPHYSICS DEPARTMENTAL TESTING SITE: THE RANGE.

 **7.[The Lady of the Manor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65549821#workskin)  
**Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric, Synnove, and an introduction to the _true_ head of the Borel household.

 **8.[A Cruel Arcanist’s Thesis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65600395#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring the Squad, Cid, Gaius, and the formal introduction of the G-Warrior warmachina.  
 **SPOILERS** for _The Sorrow of Werlyt_ through “Sleep Now in Sapphire.”

 **9.[They Grow Up So Fast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65649244#workskin)  
**Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric, Synnove, and Synnove overwhelmed feelings for a certain dragonet.  
 **SPOILERS** for Ehll Tou’s Custom Delivery story line.

 **10.[Private Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65697565#workskin)  
**Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric, Synnove, and a not-so-quick liaison during a rare moment alone together at the La Noscea house.  
 **WARNINGS:** NSFW **  
**

 **11.[Breaking Point](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65748112#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Synnove and Isolde Greywolfe, and the last time the two ever spoke to one another.  
 **WARNINGS:** Implied emotional neglect and verbal abuse.

 **12.[Strings and Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65802547#workskin)  
**Gen with minor Lucia/Hilda, featuring Rereha, Dancing Heron, Hilda, and Lucia, with the latter having to endure Rere’s complaining about the topic du jour.  
 **WARNINGS:** Alcohol and alcohol consumption.

 **13.[Nock, Draw, Loose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65854606#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Rereha and Janchette Vainchelon, and just how Rereha came to be so talented with a bow.

 **14.[A Touch of Kindness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65903764#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring the Squad, Ardbert, and Ivar, and certain early revelations about the transparency of ghosts.  
 **SPOILERS** for _Shadowbringers_ through “The Wheel Turns.”

 **15.[Suppositions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65951593#workskin)  
**Gen with minor Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric and the thoughts that haunt the Lord Commander in the dark of the night.

 **16.[Fussing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65999746#workskin)  
**Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric, Synnove, the carbuncles, and a particularly bad day for Synnove.

 **17.[Arcane Diagnostics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66048265#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Cid, Synnove, Galette, Amandina, Roksana, and how one performs a full system diagnostic on a carbuncle.

 **18.[Rogue’s View](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66098239#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring the Squad, and Alakhai’s perception of her sisters-in-arms.

 **19.[Lominsan Breakfast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66152782#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Dancing Heron, Y’shtola, and Rereha, and Limsa Lominsa’s best possible morning after hangover cure.  
 **SPOILERS** for Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal. **  
**

 **20.[Points of Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66203854#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring the Squad, a traditional stargazing trip, and a discussion about the Fourteenth Seat of the Convocation.  
 **SPOILERS** for Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal.

 **21.[A Languorous Start](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66241817#workskin)  
**Aymeric/WoL, featuring Synnove and Aymeric, the morning after the Grand Melee.  
 **WARNINGS:** NSFW

 **22.[Fedarloh Fulltouch Chalk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66279389#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Synnove, Rereha, Halulu, and Nero, and the Arcanists’ Guild’s collective obsession with fancy chalk.

 **23.[Decisive Battle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66317485#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Synnove, Nero, and Cid, and Cid’s deepening regret for not mentioning the G-Warrior earlier.  
 **SPOILERS** for _The Sorrow of Werlyt_ through “Sleep Now in Sapphire.”

 **24.[Work-Life Balance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66356029#workskin)  
**Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric, Synnove, and an incentive reminder to Aymeric about why one shouldn’t always work late.  
 **WARNINGS:** NSFW **  
**

 **25.[Oak and Granite](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66394799#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Synnove and Ehll Tou, and a very special surprise for a certain dragon.  
 **SPOILERS** for Ehll Tou’s Custom Delivery story line.

 **26.[Worst Case Scenario](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66438080#workskin)  
**Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric and Lucia, in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Rhalgr’s Reach.

 **27.[Itadakimasu](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66485275#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring the Squad and Tyr during a visit to their favorite ramen shop in Kugane.

 **28.[Mothers and Daughters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66534421#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Synnove, Amandina, Roksana, and Dulia-Chai, in a discussion about work ethics, mathematics, and the encouragement of mothers.  
 **SPOILERS** for Patch 5.1: Vows of Virtue, Deeds of Cruelty

 **29.[Blood in the Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66582505#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Synnove, Galette, Amandina, and Roksana, and the never-ending feud with a certain Hannish academic.

 **30.[Stormsong](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66630649#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring Valdeaulin, Rereha, and the shell of Midgardsormr, during a late summer storm in Terncliff.  
 **SPOILERS** for _The Sorrow of Werlyt_ through "Sleep Now in Sapphire."

 **31.[Widow’s Lament](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/66679252#workskin)  
**Gen, featuring the Greywolfe family and the immediate aftermath of the Fall of Ala Mhigo.


	2. The Bluebird of Ishgard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 1: Crux
> 
> This is also a fill for a prompt left by [deumion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/works) in the Book Club server: "aymeric takes his date to The Fanciest ishgardian patisserie and drops an ABSURD amount of money."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 1, 2020.
> 
> Timeline note: set shortly after the events of Patch 3.1: As Goes Light, So Goes Darkness.

Synnove hummed quietly to herself as she walked with Aymeric through the streets of Ishgard, her right hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. His own right hand gently covered hers, and every few moments he softly rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. A silly grin tugged at her lips every time he did so, a flush of pleasure rising on her cheeks, as each gentle rasp sent a fresh ember of warmth straight to her chest.

Aymeric had arrived at Fortemps Manor shortly after lunch, dressed down in simple leathers and that fur-lined leather coat he had worn that day not-so-long ago when she and Galette had run into him shopping along the Jeweled Crozier. He had asked for the pleasure of her company on a leisurely walk through the city—“I am not yet allowed the more strenuous exercise of the sparring ring,” he had said ruefully, a twinkle in his ice blue eyes, “but I am, thankfully, allowed to stretch my legs on daily walks.”—and after being subjected to a frantic wardrobe change by Rere (“We’re in a relationship! I don’t need to impress him! Also why is this skirt cut for my height?” “Shush, be glad I’m always prepared on your behalf, and wear this sweater with it! Oooooh and the green shawl Heron made for you, I have the perfect pin you can use.” “ _Rereha!_ ”), she had been out the door with him, hand in hand.

Their leisurely ramble had taken them through parts of the city Synnove hadn’t previously visited, or had only walked through or by once or twice. Neighborhoods of the minor nobility and vassals to the High Houses; the district where the merchants and burgeoning nouveau riche dwelled. Small parks carefully tended to preserve some green within the limits of the city; statues of minor saints and folk heroes of the Dragonsong War; a street lined on either side by greenhouses, the area bristling with dragonkillers. Aymeric had a story for each place: here was where a childhood friend had lived, before his family had moved out of the city; that was the house of his mother’s least favorite cousin, whom social propriety had declared Mama still had to entertain despite her growling; there was where he had played at knights and dragons most often; that was the saint for whom his father—“The one who raised me.”—had been named.

She had enjoyed listening to him speak, his tone shading equally with either fondness or wistfulness or, in the case of his mother’s least favorite cousin, palpable disdain. They so rarely had moments of quiet, never mind such moments together, and the opportunity to learn more about his home through his eyes had been an honor. She was sorry for the outing to end.

Except, instead of taking the turn that would lead them back towards the Fortemps Manor, Aymeric began to lead them in the direction of the Jeweled Crozier and all its myriad shops. Synnove made a questioning sound, looking up at him.

Aymeric grinned at her and kissed her forehead. “My lady was kind enough to accompany me about Ishgard in the cold, without complaint,” he said cheerfully, “and listen to me ramble besides. The least I can do is provide her some refreshment and something hot to drink in return.”

She laughed in delight, and pushed herself to her toes to kiss his cheek. “It was my pleasure to walk with you today,” she said, “but I’ll not refuse the offer of a treat. Lead on, my knight.”

The main thoroughfares were busier than the side streets, and as the Lord Commander and a Warrior of Light, the pair garnered some attention though blessedly no one approached them in search of an audience. Aymeric turned them down onto the lane that housed most of the Pillars’ cafés and bakeries, and Synnove’s stomach rumbled at the enticing aromas of coffee and bread and sugar that perfumed the air here.

He took them past the places where she and her friends often supped, past even the cafés about which Emmanellain waxed poetic. The traffic thinned as they walked, the businesses becoming more exclusive, the displays of pastries and menus becoming more elaborate and frankly obscene. Synnove looked around in growing surprise, her eyebrows rising, even as Aymeric continued to smile, secretive and mischievous.

Finally, they stopped in front of a patisserie in whose window was a display of éclairs so decadent that Synnove reflexively swallowed the saliva suddenly flooding her mouth. The choux was so fluffy it looked as if it was about to float right off the platter, the chocolate icing thick and so dark is seemed to gleam black in the shop’s light. Some were left plain, but others had decoration that hinted at the flavor of the cream or custard within each: candied orange peels; coffee beans; halved strawberries; roasted chestnuts. She swallowed again and glanced up at the placard over the shop’s door.

A simple bluebird in flight, holding a sprig of mint, was the only hint at the pastisserie’s identity.

Synnove felt the color drain from her face. “Aymeric…”

Aymeric raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, and she turned to look at him. He was _smiling,_ the rogue, as brilliant and joyous as when they had first kissed after retaking the Vault mere sennights ago. “Let me spoil you,” he purred.

For a few heartbeats she was absolutely torn: the tiny five-year old watching her parents and aunt and cousin count every gil to make the week’s earnings feed six people, along with the frugal adult who owned her own home, at war with the same tiny five-year old who loved sweets of all sorts and the inner hopeless romantic who secretly wished to have someone dote on her without reservation. “Refreshments and something hot to drink” at _the most exclusive, most expensive patisserie in Ishgard._ Not even _Rereha,_ with her near bottomless trust fund interest, had wandered this far down the lane…though in fairness to Rere, that was more due to being perfectly content with a coffee and croissant at the first shop that caught her eye.

Synnove chewed on her bottom lip, glancing back and forth between Aymeric and the Bluebird. Finally, sugar and romance won out. “All right,” she said, only a little bit weakly.

Her knight kissed her knuckles once more, and without further ado, led her inside.

The scent of cooking sugar sent her stomach growling again and as Aymeric helped her shrug out of her heavy winter coat, she looked around with wide eyes. Éclairs, macarons, petit fours, madeleines, opera cakes, mille-feuille, bavarois of all sorts—there were more types of cakes and cookies and tarts on display then she could name. She let Aymeric lead her to her a table—the only one in the shop—and as she took her seat, she saw one of the staff quickly dart over to the door and flip the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’ She whipped her head around to stare at Aymeric as he sat.

He reached for her hands and she let him take them, her knuckles going white as she squeezed his fingers. Raising her hands, he kissed the back of her right, and then her left, quietly murmuring, “It’s all right, my love,” he said with a wry grin. “Anyone who wants to enjoy the Bluebird’s delights on premise must make a reservation ahead of time to ensure the table will be free.”

Synnove narrowed her eyes and hissed, “How long have you been planning this?”

“Not that long,” he said cheerfully. “A fortnight, perhaps.”

They let go of one another as a server brought them cups of coffee in surprisingly plain white mugs, heavy and thick to keep the liquid hot for as long as possible. As the server stepped away to flit back behind the counter, Synnove stretched her leg beneath the table and hooked her ankle around Aymeric’s. He beamed and raised his coffee to take a sip, and she followed suit.

She _purred_ at the first taste. It was a dark roast, rich and flavorful, and roasted so carefully there was no hint of bitterness. While she would always love the coffeehouses of Limsa Lominsa best, there were more than a few cafés in her seaside home that could stand to take a lesson from the Bluebird in coffee brewing. Without cream or sugar, the Bluebird’s house blend would be the perfect complement to the sugary delights of the pastries.

Aymeric smiled at her over his mug, and that was when the first of the treats arrived.

Éclairs, four of them, cut in two to make for easier sharing, and to show off the flavored fillings within: one vanilla, one chocolate, one coffee, and one strawberry.

Synnove’s eyes went wider. She had _never_ seen a pastry so generously filled before; the sight was actually borderline obscene, and the part of her mind where a facsimile of Rereha lived was _dying_ to make a crude joke. She raised her eyes to meet Aymeric’s gaze—and he actually _waggled his eyebrows_ at her.

She burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hands to try and stifle the sound, shoulders shaking. Aymeric joined her, his own laugh slightly softer, though it came from deep in his belly.

“You took that far better than Mama ever did,” he said as they calmed. “I hadn’t the faintest idea of just what Da _meant_ by it until I was fourteen, but Mama slapped his arm every time and turned red as a tomato.”

Synnove smiled as she caught her breath and warmth suffused her, as it did whenever Aymeric offhandedly spoke of Rolandoix and Gwenaëlle de Borel. It was such a joy and honor to have these pieces of his past shared with her. “Did they come here often?” she said, eyes on Aymeric as she reached for a half of the vanilla éclair.

“Four times a year,” he said, eyes going distant as he reminisced. “Our birthdays, and their wedding anniversary. It was one of the few frivolities they allowed themselves, and one of the few times of year they would spoil me rotten!” He grinned, a touch sad recalling his parents, but before she could reach out to touch the back of his hand, he shook his head and gestured to her. “And here I am on the cusp of becoming maudlin, and when I wish to be spoiling _you._ Eat!”

She laughed again and, after a moment’s decision, picked up a half of the vanilla éclair, raised it to her mouth, and took a bite.

Almost immediately she moaned in rapture. Oh, but the choux was as wonderfully fluffy and cloudlike as it had appeared, practically melting on her tongue as she chewed. The icing was a truly sinfully dark chocolate, bittersweet and more like a ganache than she had anticipated. And the crème, oh sweet gods, the crème. She was used to vanilla being a light flavor, delicate and easily overwhelmed, but this was so intensely concentrated it was more than a match for the chocolate icing.

She opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and stared at Aymeric with wonder. His smile was equal parts delight and lasciviousness as he took a bite of the chocolate éclair. He chewed, swallowed, and drawled out, “Now, aren’t you glad you let me treat you?”

Synnove nodded frantically, finishing her first bite quickly, and the popped remainder of her vanilla éclair into her mouth, another happy moan escaping her as she did. The chocolate, coffee, and strawberry éclairs were all just as intensely flavored, exploding on her tongue in a riot of sensation, but the vanilla remained her favorite of the set.

From there they were served an entire tasting menu of the Bluebird’s finest treats. Palmiers were next, crispy and light and absolutely decadent when dipped into her coffee. Opera cake followed, the layers of buttercream, almond sponge cake soaked in coffee liqueur, and coffee ganache melding together in a way that caused her toes to curl in her boots and Aymeric laughingly having to fend off her fork with his own when she tried to steal a piece of _his_ when hers was gone. Meringues were fourth, lighter than air, and slices of traditional fig bavarois fifth, the jelly bright and smooth. Then an assortment of flavored macarons, the surprisingly dense for their delicate appearance but delectably satisfying to chew, then mille-feuile, then buttery madeleines, and on and on and on, with heavy, rich desserts alternated with light, simpler fare.

Each pastry was exquisitely made, the quality of ingredients and care of the craftsmanship shining through. She didn’t bother to hide any of her appreciative hums or groans, and while Aymeric’s eyes flashed every time she did, the staff of the Bluebird, when she caught sight of them, wore large, delighted smiles of their own, rightfully proud to have a new customer so enjoy their hard work. Even better than the wonderful desserts, though, was the knowledge that it was _Aymeric_ who had wanted to share something he considered special with her, and continue following the traditions of his family.

After all, she thought, pleasure suffusing her at the thought: it was _exactly_ a moon today since the attack on the Vault, and the night they had confessed their feelings for one another.

The servers cleared away the last plates and refilled their coffee mugs, and Synnove sat back with a content sigh, cradling her mug in her hands. “Thank you for this, Aymeric,” she said, beaming at him. “I am well and truly spoiled.”

Aymeric smiled at her and hooked their other ankles together so that they were a tangle of limbs beneath the table. “I’m glad,” he said, voice soft. And then his smile turned _cheeky._ “But we’re not done quite yet…”

His gaze was somewhere behind her shoulder, and she turned to follow it. Approaching them with a tray in hand was a plump, stately elezen matron wearing the traditional garb of a culinarian, a bluebird embroidered over her heart. Synnove guessed she must be Madame Iriene, the owner and chief pastry chef of the Bluebird.

Madame Iriene stopped next to their little table and gave a half bow. “By request,” she said, a sly look in her eye, “a special finale in honor of the Lord Commander’s lady.”

Synnove blinked in shock, glancing askance at Aymeric. His smile widened.

Madame Iriene set the tray between them, revealing its contents: two plates, each with three pastries arranged in a neat row.

The first was a small pudding pie, topped with a dollop of fresh whipped cream. The second was a soft bun, golden brown and delicious, smelling ever so faintly of apples. The third was a trio of three caramels, unusually darkened, and sprinkled with red flakes on top.

Synnove stared at them, mouth going dry. These—these were—no, they _couldn’t_ be.

“A chocolate pudding pie, its crust made of crushed chocolate cookies,” Madame Iriene began to list, “topped with mint-infused whipped cream. A soft bread bun, stuffed with apples spiced with a mix of cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, and star anise. Caramels, infused with coffee and dragon pepper.”

Tears pricked at her eyes and Synnove set her coffee down so she could once more bring her hands to her mouth.

Galette. Tyr. Ivar.

Representations of exactly how the aether around each of their summoning foci tasted to her senses.

Aymeric made a concerned noise and Synnove looked up at him as her tears overflowed. “Synnove, are you all right?” he said gently, reaching for her. “My apologies, I overstepped—”

She lunged forward (Madame Iriene darted out of the way with the dexterity of a woman thirty years younger), grabbing Aymeric’s face between her hands, and kissed him for all she was worth. He grunted in surprise, frozen for a moment, before he brought his hands up to cup her shoulders and return her kiss with a relieved laugh.

“Thank you,” she said in between kisses and the occasional teary hiccup. “Thank you, thank you, I can’t believe you remembered, I babbled about it _moons_ ago, I didn’t even know anyone was paying attention—”

“How could I not pay attention?” her knight said, drawing back to look at her with pure adoration. “It’s you, and something important to you.”

Synnove sniffled, overwhelmed. She had already made a claim on him, and he on her, a moon ago, but _this?_ As far as she was concerned, he was hers, and she was his.

Forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fill references [Chance Encounters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807621/chapters/40149587#workskin) from FFXIV Write 2018 and [Finally](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838770/chapters/49861136#workskin) from FFXIV Write 2019. Aymeric/Synnove shippy goodness AND fluff AND food porn AKA _exactly my brand!_ :D


	3. Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: Sway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 2, 2020.

Without picking her head up from the table, Tataru reached over and smacked Thancred’s arm. “All right, all right, enough!” she whined. “Six days home and grilling Rere about her hand signs for field scouting and gossiping during _your own party_ , you absolute killjoy.”

“When else am I going to get the chance?” Thancred said, gesturing to the party around them. “I have her pinned down with alcohol and she’s singing like a bird!”

“Friends, friends,” Rereha said, making a placating gesture. “There’s enough of me to go around!”

While the newly restored senior Scions had still not yet been cleared by Krile for anything more strenuous than short, gentle walks throughout the Rising Stones, she _had_ acquiesced to the idea of throwing a party celebrating their return. The door between the Stones and the Seventh Heaven had been thrown up, drinks poured freely, and the Wandering Minstrel and a rotating cadre of bards provided music as half of Revenant’s Toll passed in and out to welcome the Scions home. Tataru and Rereha had wandered over to Thancred’s table a few bells into the festivities, supporting one another as they staggered from side to side like landlubbers with no sea legs and their fourth mugs of ale in hand.

Thancred, secret workaholic that he was, had used the opportunity to pump Rereha for information on the myriad hand signs she and her fellow Warriors of Light had been using for over fifteen years, something about which the chatterbox lalafell was normally surprisingly recalcitrant on. Most of it so far had been incomprehensible: most of their pidgin sign language had grown from references and events they either didn’t remember or didn’t make sense to anyone who hadn’t been there, or relied entirely on minute chances in expression or simply _knowing_ how one another thought. The rogue-turned-gunbreaker, of course, wasn’t going to let that stop him from using it as a basis for something similar for the Scions, or at least himself and Riol for intelligence gathering.

Tataru pointed at her fellow pinkette now. “I want to know what that hand sign you’re always using is,” she said, only the faintest slur present in her voice.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, honey,” said Rere, lifting her mug to take a deep glugging pull. “There are so many I use to trash talk or gossip with, after all.”

Tataru forced herself upright, bracing herself on her elbows, and held her hands in front of her face, wiggling her fingers. Thancred propped his chin on his hand, raising his eyebrow. “Oh, I think I know the one,” he drawled. “That _has_ to be one of the lewd ones.”

Rereha set her ale down and squinted at Tataru’s hands, brows furrowed, before her face lit up and a wide, evil grin spread against her dark-skinned features. “Oooooooooh that one is my favorite!” she sang out. “All right, so that one is actually a combination gesture-expression, so watch closely—”

Shoving her mug out of the way, she held her hands just in front of her so that they were parallel with each other and perpendicular to the table. She flicked her hands up, then down in straight lines, slow enough that the movement was clear for her audience. Then, she jerked her right thumb over her shoulder and waggled her eyebrows at the same time. Finally, she did the sequence at full speed: hands flicking up and down and flowing into the thumb jerk, eyebrows waggling, almost too fast to perceive for anyone save her sisters-by-choice.

“Any guesses?” she chirped.

“Definitely lewd,” said Tataru after a long pause of simply staring at the other lalafell’s hands.

“Unquestionably,” said Thancred, nodding. “Not with _those_ eyebrows.”

Rereha cackled. “Close, close, I’ll give you both that! That is the hand sign for ‘a whole-ass man.’”

A beat of silence.

Two.

Rere’s grin somehow got wider.

Tataru started laughing so hard she snorted, throwing back her head and clutching her belly as she nearly fell out of her chair. Thancred dropped his head into his elbow, shoulders shaking as he guffawed and snickered, trying to catch a breath, pounding the table with his fist. A few people looked their way, the laughter loud enough to be heard over the rest of the carousing in the Stones, but the sight of Rereha grinning like a coeurl while two of her fellow Scions laughed like a pair of hyenas was explanation enough for everyone.

“Now, it’s important to note that the object of discussion does not need to be physically present,” said Rereha cheerfully. “Therefore, you don’t need to be pointing your thumb at someone specific, just over the shoulder will do.”

“Dare I ask who qualifies as a ‘whole-ass man?’” Tataru gasped, wiping away a tear, reaching for her own ale.

“It’s subjective, but generally any ruggedly handsome gentleman will fit the bill! Thancred, even if his face is almost _too_ pretty—”

The man raised his head and doffed an invisible cap to her, still snickering.

“—Raubahn—”

“Oh, that is a given,” Tataru said into her mug, eyes twinkling.

“—Urianger—”

“ _Surely_ not.”

“Swole book-liftin’ arms, my friend!”

The gunbreaker stared at her. “What does that even _mean,_ Rereha?”

She flapped a hand at him dismissively. “Shush, I’m still listing, don’t ruin my groove. Aymeric because that whole upper body _,_ Estinien because thighs, Hoary because _godsdamn,_ that red mage X’rhun because _wow_ , Cid because have you _seen_ that chest—”

“Nero?” Tataru said curiously, resting her chin in her palm.

Rereha paused and tapped her chin. “Sometimes,” she said, finally. “Mostly, however, he’s a gremlin.”

At this, she held up her closed fist, then extended her forefinger and pinky as far to the sides as she could, the rough approximation of the round body and wide, pointed ears of the chattering voidsent.

Alakhai walked by at that moment, heading for Dawn’s Respite, while she carried a dozing Alphinaud piggyback. “Talking about yourself, Rere?” she said, eyebrows raised as she caught sight of the lalafell’s hand.

“Queen of the gremlins, that’s me!” Rereha cheered, throwing her hands up, and sending Thancred and Tataru into fresh peals of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Squad's hand signs are something I've only referred to a time or two (most obviously in _Lupicide_ ), but I didn't really get into more detail until an [ask meme](https://dragons-bones.tumblr.com/post/624554541109641216) happened. So one of my goals this FFXIV Write was try to use the hand signs more often--and especially show off Rereha's favorite one. XD (Well, it's tied for favorite--the other one is "whole-ass woman," because Rere is a bi disaster.)


	4. Red Sky in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 3: Muster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 3, 2020.

The main lecture hall at Mealvaan’s Gate was only half full, but those who sat in its seat were the senior members of the Arcanists’ Guild: graduated students, masters and doctoral students, professors, and the assessors and agents of the customs house itself. No apprentices and no one under the age of eighteen in the case of those savant-like graduates was allowed in the hall, although none of the staff doubted half the apprentice corps had their ears pressed up against the doors trying to overhear something and we were relaying it to the rest. But the snooping of the baby arcanists aside, this was the business for adults.

Normally, the Guild’s primary auditorium was filled with golden sunshine, the bright blue sky visible from any of the windows that ringed the walls. But today, as it had been for too long now, the skies were darkly overcast, no open sky visible unless one sailed west for three days out into the Indigo Deep, and the light was thin and watery—and tinged red.

Dalamud sank ever lower in the sky.

Synnove rubbed her temples, a fresh headache forming behind her eyes. The Admiral and Maelstrom would be departing for the Carteneau Flats within a sennight, and the Guild had been arguing for four bells now on how best to proceed. A battalion of infantry from the Knights of the Barracuda would be staying in Limsa Lominsa to maintain order, but most of the arcanists were of the opinion that there was _something_ else the Guild could be doing to assist their home. As always happened when too many arcanists got together to share opinions, however, shouting broke out and petty grievances took over.

Academics were a petty, bull-headed lot.

“Joining the van would be idiotic,” Mhaslona snarled, hands on her hips as she stared down Bontensont of the aetherochemistry department. Synnove bit back a groan, unbelieving that the argument had circled back around to this topic for the _third damned time,_ even as her former mentor continued: “Not a single arcanist here has any combat training beyond small unit tactics, on top of which those small unit tactics have been designed for the close quarters of cargo holds and ships’ decks. We’re a liability on an open battlefield and more likely to be underfoot of soldiers, none of whom are likely to be familiar with our magicks.”

“Just because _you’re_ too much the coward—”

“Sit _DOWN,_ Bontensont!” Thubyrgeim roared, finally losing her temper.

The elezen, having gone white as soon as the last word of his had left his mouth with the knowledge of someone realizing he had gone too damned far, immediately dropped into his seat and ducked his head under the furious glares of both Mhaslona and the acting guildmistress.

Synnove didn’t envy Thubyrgeim in the least. The woman was only four years older than her, but her level head and grasp of bureaucracy, on top of her mastery of arcanima, and gotten her promoted to assistant guildmistress last year when K’rhid Tia had finally bothered to swan into the city for the first time since Synnove had even joined the Guild. While she had more than proven herself able to manage the diverse personalities that populated the Guild, most of whom were decades older than herself, not even Thubyrgeim was without her temper. Synnove was impressed she had managed to last this long without snapping.

Their guildmistress-in-fact glared around the hall at her arcanists from her place at the podium. Someone had brought her a chair at the beginning of the meeting, but she had remained standing the entire time as she had valiantly moderated this debacle of a discussion.

“We have gotten nowhere productive these past few bells,” Thubyrgeim said icily, “save to repeat the same points over and over. Mhaslona is correct in that none of us have the proper training to stand shoulder to shoulder with either the Knights of the Barracuda, or even the volunteer adventurers of the Foreign Levy.

“Chalbi also rightly pointed out that it would be illogical for us to assume logistical duties; similar to combat, we don’t have the experience to know the Maelstrom bureaucracy, its supply lines, or its supply _needs._ Our healing magicks are further limited, _nor_ are we trained in first aid, as N’tahja said, so our use as medics is limited if not actively harmful!”

She swept her gaze from one side of the auditorium to the other and sighed heavily. “I know you want to be of use just as much as I,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but the acoustics of the auditorium carried the sound of it to every corner of the room. “Eorzea stands on the brink of destruction, and simply sitting by and waiting for it to happen—or waiting for someone else to do something about it—is unacceptable to us. But if we act rashly and if we keep falling into petty squabbles, we will do more harm than good.”

Silence settled on the arcanists, each absorbing Thubyrgeim’s words as they sat and thought.

Finally, after long minutes:

“…What about acting as a communications or signal corps?” Ricard from the mathematics department said.

There was a rustling of cloth as most of the arcanists shifted in surprise and turned to look at him, standing up in the middle of the assembled mathematicians.

“We all know the flag signals the Knights of the Barracuda and Maelstrom use for their field deployments,” he added. “After all, it’s how we signal our own ships if we’re on assessment out in the harbor and how we know if _they_ have any trouble while escorting merchants. Unless they’ve suddenly adopted a completely new system, that _is_ something with which we can assist.”

Mhaslona, having sunk down into the seat next to Synnove during Thubyrgeim’s speech, hummed thoughtfully. “More communications officers to spread out among both the regulars and the Foreign Levy,” she said, loud enough for her voice to carry. “And if need be, we’re the better option to send running to another squad, too, leaves one more sword-arm on the line.”

“The carbuncles can run messages from unit to unit as well,” Synnove called out. “Either written or recorded. We know Dalamud’s descent has been creating aetheric interference; we can’t know if linkpearls may fail entirely, and the double redundancy of physical signals and messengers could prevent a total communications breakdown in a worst-case scenario.”

“Useful in the city, as well,” Bontensont said slowly. “Having an arcanist with each infantry unit patrolling provides the same safety net for communication, and the close quarters of our quays are similar enough to ships’ holds that our current trained tactics would remain effective with little collateral. One hopes we wouldn’t _need_ to resort to combat to quell panic, but, as Synnove said, in a worst-case scenario…” He shrugged helplessly.

Thubyrgeim smiled slowly. “Well now,” she said, “there are the arcanists I know so well.” She glanced around the room. “Objections?”

None.

The guildmistress nodded. “Right, then. I will begin writing the proposal to the Admiral immediately. If anyone has any further ideas, you have until sunset to stop by my office. Dismissed.”

A rustle as everyone pushed themselves to their feet, and the auditorium filled with the low susurrating murmur of voices as the arcanists began to speak amongst themselves. Mhaslona clapped Synnove on the shoulder as they both stood. “We’re on our way, Greywolfe,” the Sea Wolf said, a touch of pride in her voice.

Synnove smiled at her, though it was small and strained. She _wanted_ to be useful, to do something, but though the Guild had finally found its course, trepidation still sat heavy upon her. As she followed Mhaslona from the hall, she glanced out one of the windows.

Slowly, inevitably, Dalamud continued to sink ever lower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bit includes a formal consolidation of some [headcanons](https://dragons-bones.tumblr.com/post/160749690896/) I had of the role that the arcanists had at Carteneau (some of which were touched in last year's fill, "[Suffer, Promise, Witness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838770/chapters/50154260#workskin)"). Because yay, lead up to trauma! :D


	5. Iron and Pine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 4: Clinch
> 
>  **SPOILERS** for Ehll Tou's Custom Delivery story line!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 4, 2020.

Ehll Tou rocked back on her heels and set her claws on her hips, a thrum of pleasure rising in her throat and her tail swishing back and forth in content arcs as she examined her first completed woodworking project.

The tool chest was unassuming: simple pine, painted over in Ishgardian blue to disguise the mismatched grains of the planks she had used. The lid had no hardware and was instead kept shut with a combination of a rabbet cut into the back piece and a strong magnet on the front, with battens on the inside of the lid to ensure it didn’t slide around whenever she carried the chest. The handles were simple but sturdy rope, threaded through holes bored into the sides, and the only metal visible—though now painted over—were the iron nails clinching the cleats and planks into place.

Not the prettiest box, perhaps; nothing at all like the chests that contained armor and lost treasures carefully hidden in Sohr Khai, made of heavy woods and metal and engraved with beautiful designs or set with precious metals and jewels. She and her broodsiblings and cousins had poked at many of them on their explorations of the ancient roost, both intrigued and baffled by the excessive gaudiness of the wealth of man. But, as she was learning, not everything she made had to be beautiful, nor did it even have to be perfect. Form was as important as function, and _good enough_ was more than acceptable.

“Quality is a necessary consideration,” Arvide had said when he first taught her how to sew, “particularly when you’re working on a commission! But there are plenty of things you can make that will be perfectly functional without also being aesthetically pleasing.”

It was a fine lesson to learn along with the foundations of carpentry, however. The paint on her new box highlighted the toolmarks left behind from planing the wooden planks smooth and shaping the cleats, but there was a charm in seeing the little imperfections brought to the fore. And so many new skills that had gone into the crafting: splitting and sawing to trim planks to just the right length and width; planing, not just to smooth but to shape the wood into an even thickness, and to create rabbet joints that could hold those planks neatly in place; hammering, which had seemed so simple at first, but required a keen eye so that the wood didn’t split (and thumbs weren’t whacked—ow) and that the nails would not come loose. (So many scraps of wood sacrificed to mastering how to properly clinch nails alone.) And, of course, learning the importance of all the different pieces before she put it all together: that a box wasn’t simply four sides, a bottom, and a lid, but also the not-so-decorative strips of wood called _cleats_ that prevented warping and would keep a box sturdy and straight for years to come.

Ehll Tou was still becoming comfortable with her new adult size, as well, and some days she missed having smaller paws that had made fine, delicate work such as sewing a simple task (well, as simple as it could be when one had claws instead of fingers). Relearning her stitches with larger—though more dexterous!—forelimbs was a challenge, but these new ‘hands’ of hers and greater strength were what allowed her to take on larger, more complex projects. She certainly would never have been able to manage sawing or planing as a dragonet!

(Thank goodness she had made herself a pair of leather gloves after achieving her adult size, though. Perhaps it had not been the wisest choice of a first project as an adult when she was still learning how to _coordinate_ her new limbs and _relearn_ how to hold a needle and thread and round knife and awl; she had spent quite a bit of time using some of those words Synnove muttered under her breath when the woman was a cutting a particularly uncooperative gem or assembling the delicate mechanical workings of a chronometer. But the trouble had been worth it in the long run. Her new hands had soft, hyur-like skin on the palms and undersides of her fingers rather than the flexible scales of her dragonet days, and it was _quite_ important to protect them from injury.

Blisters were _not_ an adult experience of which she was fond.)

She reached towards the chest, raising the lid and sliding it back into the notches carved into the sides of the chest that would allow the lid to stay open without falling, and peered inside. Perhaps she could make removeable trays? Something to store smaller objects such as nails or drafting chalk so that they didn’t rattle about the bottom. She had every intention of still using her satchel as much as she could to carry her most important—and most used—tools, but this would box would be _quite_ useful in moving _more_ tools when she traveled between Ishgard and the Churning Mists to show her friends her projects.

Ah, but now that she was becoming more proficient in woodworking, she could begin making herself other items, too. Tables, workbenches, a desk for Hautdilong… Oh, and her chest-building skills would translate so well to cupboards! Arvide and Synnove had told her they were working on finding her space for _her very own workshop_ here in the Firmament, and having her own space meant she could _decorate._ Yes, cupboards would be an excellent side project to pursue, and soon; she could safely store items like her beloved hat while she learned smithing or alchemy, and lock her favorite treats away from that naughty gaelicat that haunted the Firmament, and keep any excess materials on hand for future projects.

Ehll Tou clapped her claws together excitedly as she thought. She would make her cupboards and cabinets and shelves from something a little prettier than pine. Oak, walnut, mahogany? So many lovely choices available! And it never hurt to have a plan in place now. Perhaps she would ask Synnove if she had any recommendations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dad works in construction and was originally a carpenter; he still does a lot of repairs and woodwork around the house himself, so wood and carpentry and sawdust is a familiar thing, so the second I saw "clinch" as the prompt I was all, "we are going CRAFTING and by CRAFTING I mean we are doing EHLL TOU THE BEST DRAGON DAUGHTER."
> 
> Her project here is based off one done by [the English Woodworker](https://www.theenglishwoodworker.com/tool-chest-plan-oval-nails/) that I stumbled across looking for a good visual that matched what I'd seen my dad do when he clinched nails (though it wasn't something he did often).


	6. Unscheduled Detonations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 5: Matter of Fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 5, 2020.

The northwest horizon bulged and heaved and _exploded._

Synnove sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. And it had been such a nice day so far. “Godsdamned motherfucking hells-bound aetherochemistry department,” she said. “Ivar?”

The ruby carbuncle was attached to the observation window like a barnacle, face smooshed against the thick glass and his tails lashing in delight as he watched the plume of green and purple flames and blue-grey smoke rise over the Indigo Deep island that was AETHEROCHEMISTRY DEPARTMENTAL TESTING SITE: THE FARM in the distance. He chittered loudly, _Shockwave inbound, Mama!_

“Swiving fishfucker bastards,” she said in a flat tone, walking over to the aether-radio built into the wall in the corner. The central observation tower had only just had the device installed two sennights ago, but already it was pulling its weight nearly as much as the enormous aether batteries sunk deep into the ground below them. She picked up the receiver and toggled the setting for the device to transmit over the whole of AETHEROPHYSICS DEPARTMENTAL TESTING SITE: THE RANGE and out to the ships of the Maelstrom sitting at anchor just off the southeastern edge of the island for artillery maneuvers. As she did so, she idly said, “Ivar, give me the count.”

_Twenty-three! Twenty-two! Twenty-one!_

Synnove depressed the speaker’s button. “Attention, Arcanists’ Guild personnel. Explosion at the Farm, unknown accelerants and damage. Please get under cover for potential biological fallout. Shockwave inbound.”

As she spoke, she knelt down and crawled under the cover of one of the heavy worktables bolted into the floor of the observation room, the spiral cord between the receiver and the main radio stretching into a straight line. In tandem with Ivar, she kept the count for her colleagues: “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.”

Ivar peeled himself off the window and reluctantly hopped to the floor, bounding over to her with a cackle of delight that sounded like crackling flame. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

“Impact.”

She let go of the receiver—the cord popped back into a corkscrew shape and swung wildly, smacking into the wall a few times, but it had been built of sturdy materials and would be just fine—and the blast from the Farm five malms away slammed into the Range. The main observation building _shook_ , the heavy glass rattling in the windows like a hurricane was raging outside, but the distance had, thankfully, dispersed the shockwave enough that it didn’t do more than shake loose dust and dirt everywhere in the room. Synnove sighed, shaking her head, and settled to sit cross-legged under the table until the shaking stopped. Ivar crawled into her lap, purring in delight and kneading her thigh.

_That was a good boom, Mama!_

Synnove scratched behind his ears, expression wry as she said, “Sure was, spitfire.”

Of course she had to be the senior aetherophysics staff member on Range duty today. Of fucking course. Time to say goodbye to getting home on time tonight, the paperwork from this was going to be a godsdamned nightmare. How the _fuck_ did one get _green and purple fire?_

Once the final tremor finally faded away, she crawled back into the open, Ivar tucked beneath one arm, and pushed herself to her feet. As she glanced over at the schedule for who had reserved time on which test site for the day, she reached down to snag the receiver and depressed the transit button. “Check in, sing out as you’re called. Test site three, over?”

“We’re fine, but some of the glass in the windows cracked, over.”

“Test site four, over?”

“Clear, over!”

“Test site seven, over?”

“Jus’ peachy, over.” Keltgeim’s voice was chipper, and Synnove could hear Urianger coughing in the background. Poor man, this was a helluva way to first experience Arcanists’ Guild nonsense that wasn’t Kelt’s special brand of fringe theory astrophysics.

“Test site twelve, over?”

“All set, over!”

“ _Bloodhound_ , over?”

Captain Dyrstwydawyn, commander of the five ships of 7th Division, 1st Squadron, came over the line, her voice exasperated and unamused: “7th Division is fine. Range, what in the seven hells was that, over?”

“I’m about to find out. Over and out.” Synnove said drily. She clicked the radio’s channel over to the one for the Farm, shaking her head. Ivar flicked his ear, accidentally smacking her arm, and she hefted him up so he could hoist himself onto her shoulder and sprawl smugly around her neck.

 _Haha, my spot now!_ he chattered.

Brat. Galette wasn’t even here for him to properly gloat.

“Absolute fucking lunatics,” she hissed as she found the correct frequency, and once more depressed the transit button. “Farm, this is Range, _what in the bloody buggering fuck did you do._ Over.”

“Hello, Range,” said K’rhabye, her counterpart as the aetherochemistry department vice chair. Her voice was composed, as usual, but there was an underlying layer of cold, frosty rage that meant someone was going to be _literally_ raked over the coals rather than metaphorically. She was also _not_ supposed to be on Farm oversight duty today. “The energetic materials students arrived today, over.”

“What in the _fuck,_ ” Synnove hissed, and grabbed the Range’s copy of the Farm’s schedule. She dragged her finger down the list, her scowl intensifying, and then flipped pages until she got to the reservations for next sennight. Noting the time slots for that sennight, she then pulled out the Range’s own schedule, flipped to next sennight, and compared. “Oh for—they were scheduled for Windsday next, we had the Range cleared just in case exactly this happened! Over.”

“I am aware,” the other arcanist said, and Synnove could easily imagine the woman pushing her glasses up her nose. “Unfortunately, our Farm overseer _wasn’t_ and this discrepancy wasn’t discovered until the last minute when I teleported in to try and catch the fools before they could set the charges. However, as you saw, I wasn’t fast enough. I can confirm that the biologics labs remain uncompromised, over.”

“Do I want to know what the energetic materials idiots were testing?”

“No.”

Synnove grimaced. When K’rhabye used _that_ tone… “Thanks, Farm. Over and out.”

She hung the receiver up and sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose again. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. _Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck._

...Better start the paperwork now, if she wanted to get home before midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not an FFXIV Write if the Arcanists' Guild doesn't explode _something._
> 
> The Keltgeim mentioned herein belongs to my friend [tehJai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehJai/pseuds/tehJai) and is used with permission!
> 
> Fun fact, the original word count for the raw final was 666.


	7. The Lady of the Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 6: Free Write | Chaperone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 6, 2020.

There was something absolutely captivating about the sight of Synnove Greywolfe curled up on a sofa in the Borel Manor parlor.

Of course, there was the mundane reason: she was a beautiful woman, the lamplight shading her bronze skin to golden and the dyed grass green highlights in her hair a brilliant emerald. Her pose was effortlessly sensual, right forearm draped along the sofa’s armrest, her upper body turned towards him attentively, right leg tucked beneath herself while her left stretched along the cushions towards the sofa’s other end. And rather than the worn, oft-repaired linens, cottons, and leathers he knew she preferred for casual attire, this evening she wore a deepwood silk blouse, tucked into a black wool skirt with an uneven hem, and buttery soft knee boots just short enough when her skirt moved just _so_ to reveal the thick stockings donned to ward off Ishgard’s chill.

Such a stark contrast to the ideals he had been raised to favor in women: neither the demure-seeming noble scion of fine breeding nor the grim stoicism of a lady knight. Nor even to match the ideals most prized in men: pious ferocity among soldiers both highborn and low, staid chivalry from the genteel. To Ishgardian eyes, Synnove was, at both work and leisure, the living image of an exotic adventurer.

But more than her appearance was how relaxed she was: she sprawled rather than sat. Even in Fortemps Manor, a thread of tension always seemed to linger in Synnove’s bearing, the Warrior of Light never quite fully at ease no matter how fond she was of her Uncle Edmont. That she was comfortable enough in _his_ home, _his_ presence, to let down those final barriers of defense and just let herself _be_ was an honor beyond reckoning.

However, as Aymeric leaned forward to pick up the bottle of wine and refill her glass, his gaze drifted to the expanse of lovely leg now in his view, just out of the corner of his eye.

…He was a man, not a saint.

His lady at least didn’t seem to mind his lapse in propriety, if the slight blush on her cheeks and sly grin on her lips was anything to go by when he caught sight of it as he sat back upright in his armchair. Well, better to say the _continued_ lapse in propriety: the chair was cornerwise to the sofa, the armrests barely an ilm apart, scandalously close by Ishgardian standards. He dared _much,_ despite Synnove’s combined amusement and exasperation at society’s expectations of how courting was to proceed; still, Aymeric could well imagine the scolding Mama would have given him at so flagrantly toeing the line, or Da’s lecture on the proper behavior of a gentleman towards his intended.

(“You can misbehave _after_ you’re married,” Da would have said at the end of such a lecture, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, while Mama threw up her hands in defeat.)

Synnove, to use a Lominsan turn of phrase, let him off the hook, not commenting on his wandering eyes in favor of taking a generous sip of wine—and winking as she lowered the faceted crystal.

“Now, my knight,” she said impishly, “by my count, we have half a bell before my ‘chaperone’ has to end her discussion of fiber crafting with Hersande in the kitchen and come to escort me away, lest my reputation be irrevocably damaged by staying too late in the abode of my suitor.”

“Such is the way of things among the nobility in Ishgard,” Aymeric said with faux gravitas, even as a smile tugged at his mouth.

“You have dined me,” Synnove said, setting her glass down on the low table, emerald eyes locked on his. “You have wined me. You have treated me to fascinating conversations about the history of Ishgard and your own family—and I mean that genuinely, dearheart. I’ve enjoyed every moment of tonight.”

He grinned at her and did not bother to hide the pride that puffed his chest.

“But there is _one_ thing I would like to do tonight, especially since Alakhai is babysitting the carbuncles and we’re not likely to be…interrupted.” She propped her chin on her fist. “A tradition perhaps not conducive with those of Ishgard—or, well, Ishgard’s high society.”

“And what would that be, my love?”

“I want to make out with you like we’re a pair of teenagers.”

Aymeric was _very_ thankful he hadn’t been taking a sip of his own wine, with how he burst out laughing. Synnove smirked, clearly pleased with herself, and watched with glimmering eyes as he set his own glass down and spread his arms wide.

“I am yours to do with as you will,” he said, still shaking with mirth.

His lady leered at him and pushed herself upright, practically slithering over the arm of the sofa in her haste to get to him. His laughter picked up and he reached out for her, grasping her biceps and pulling while she pushed and walked on her knees from the sofa to the arm of his own chair. Once Synnove was clear of the sofa, she shamelessly deposited herself in his lap, her knees bracketing his thighs, and draped her arms over his shoulders. He wrapped his own arms loosely around her waist, one thumb idly rubbing at the small of her back through her silk blouse, and they grinned, smug and wicked, and drank in one another.

A frisson of desire rolled down Aymeric’s spine at the look in Synnove’s eyes. Soft affection and banked heat lurked in equal measure in those emerald depths, and this close he could easily see her pupils dilating. She cupped his face with one hand, brushing her thumb over the cheekbone, and without breaking eye contact with her, he canted his head to the side to kiss her palm. He felt the shiver that went through her at that action, could swear he felt the gooseflesh rise on her skin beneath her blouse, and he raised his head to brush his lips against the beauty mark at the right corner of her mouth, lingering, reveling in the softness of her. A shaking sigh escaped his lady, her breath warming the miniscule space between them, and he watched her eyes drift shift as she nuzzled closer, rubbing her nose against his. He began a slow, luxurious stroke up her spine, all the way to her nape, and back down again and kept repeating the movement, each stroke releasing more and more of the tension Synnove held in herself until she was practically boneless with contentment, her full weight pressing against him. She began to tilt her head, her top lip brushing against the his bottom one, and something dark and possessive settled in his chest at the knowledge this delicious teasing was about to end—

A soft, authoritative _mew_ sounded from close to the floor on Aymeric’s right.

They both froze, a hairs breadth away from kissing; Aymeric saw Synnove’s eye open, pupils contracting and whites visible, her shock mirroring his own. They both flicked their eyes in the direction of the sound, then back at one another.

It had _sounded_ like a carbuncle, save for the lack of any sort of aetheric undertone: no windchime like Galette, no brassy bell like Tyr, no crackling steel-and-flame like Ivar.

Aymeric had a sneaking, though puzzled, suspicion of who the interrupting voyeur might be as Synnove leaned back. They both peered over the side of the chair.

Lady Crème, the blue-eyed, white longhaired queen of the house, stared up at them, unblinking and deeply unamused. She _mrowled,_ insistent, her fluffy tail slowly waving back and forth.

Synnove gasped in pure delight, cupping her cheeks in her hands. “You have a kitty!” she whispered.

“I do,” Aymeric said wryly, raising his eyebrows at the cat. Lady Crème’s tongue flicked out to lick her nose. “Though it is fairer to say that _she_ has a person. I’m rather surprised to see her, truth be told: she accepts myself, Hersande, and Baptistaux as her devoted subjects, but she is slow to warm up to anyone else. She barely tolerates Lucia and Handeloup, for instance. I thought for sure it would take at least until your fifth visit before she could be coaxed from hiding and I could properly introduce the two of you.”

His lady wiggled in his grasp until she was more traditionally sitting in his lap, knees hooked over his own and her back against the left armrest. Keeping eye contact with Lady Crème, she patted the right armrest, clicking encouragingly in the back of her throat. “Come on up, sweetheart,” she said, sing-song.

To Aymeric’s shock, Lady Crème leaped onto the chair, balancing on the armrest, and glanced at him briefly before focusing on Synnove. Synnove, in turn, held out her fingers for the cat to sniff, which Crème daintily did while maintaining her aura of regal dignity. His lady cooed, “Oh, aren’t you just the prettiest darling!”

And then, to his even greater shock, Lady Crème headbutted Synnove’s fingers and imperiously stepped into her lap, turning in a circle three times as if she was judging the quality of a new rug or pillow. Satisfied, the cat laid down and curled into a ball, draping her long tail across both their knees, and began to purr. Synnove, apparently uncaring that her black wool skirt was now guaranteed to be smothered by white fur, squeaked happily and began to pet Lady Crème in soft strokes from the top of her head to the base of her tail, pausing every now and then to scritch behind her ears. Lady Crème purred, the sound rough and squeaky with age, and kneaded the air with her paws as her eyes closed to slits.

Aymeric laughed quietly, resting his head on Synnove’s shoulder, charmed despite the interruption. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her take so quickly to someone, save Mama,” he said in a hushed tone. “Truly, you are a marvel, Synnove.”

Synnove blushed and gently batted his chest with the back of the hand she wasn’t using to pet his cat. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said in kind. “I just have a knack with animals.”

“Well, knack or not, I’m still duly impressed,” he said. “Ah, but where are my manners? Synnove, meet Lady Crème, the true lady of the house.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” Synnove to the feline.

Lady Crème merely continued to purr, but she rolled to expose part of her belly, and with another happy squeak, Synnove acquiesced and began to gently pet the soft fur there, too.

A bolt of envy went through Aymeric. The last time _he_ had attempted that, Lady Crème had _bitten_ him. His lady, whether she thought so or not, was _absolutely_ magic.

“She’s so beautiful,” Synnove whispered. “I never thought I would see a cat like this again. They’re from Ala Khara, in Gyr Abania, and I vaguely recall one of our neighbors in Ala Mhigo having one who would come to visit.”

“One of Mama’s friends knew a breeder who had escaped Gyr Abania to Thavnair,” he said, letting go of her waist with one arm to gently pet one of Lady Crème’s paws with his forefinger. That, at least, was something the white queen had never begrudged him. “She agreed to introduce Da to the breeder over correspondence, and Da was able to gift Mama an Ala Kharan kitten for Starlight some, oh, twelve years ago now. Mama was the only person Lady Crème unquestionably adored—she tolerated Da and myself well enough—and she was with Mama when she passed five years ago.”

Synnove made a quiet noise of saddened awe, and Aymeric pulled her closer. “What a good girl,” she said.

“The very best.”

When Dancing Heron came to collect Synnove sometime later, that was how she found the pair of them: sharing a single chair, wine long since forgotten, quietly doting upon the most content feline in all of Ishgard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Crème first got a mention in "[Escape](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838770/chapters/50035877#workskin)" for last year's FFXIV Write! I based her appearance off a Turkish Angora (also known as an Ankara cat), and since I use Turkey as one of many inspirations for Ala Mhigo/Gyr Abania...
> 
> As a timeline note, this is...somewhere between the end of 3.1 and the Grand Melee in 3.2.


	8. A Cruel Arcanist's Thesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 7: Nonagenarian
> 
>  **SPOILERS** for _The Sorrow of Werlyt_ through the quest, "Sleep Now in Sapphire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 7, 2020.

“I present Garlond Ironworks’ adaptation of the Ultima Warrior: the G-Warrior!” Cid was gleefully smug, the epitome of someone living out a boyhood dream.

The four Warriors of Light and the trio of Ascian hunters stared up at the warmachina kneeling before them, varying degrees of shock or awe on their faces. Rereha was particularly slackjawed, head craned far back enough that she had to plant her hand on her crown to keep her hat in place, but suddenly she snapped her mouth closed and sung something under her breath, in what sounded like Hingan. Alakhai aimed a kick at her without looking that Rere nimbly dodged, also without looking.

“I know Allagan design when I see it,” Gaius said softly. “Excavated from one of their ruins, no doubt.”

“Azys Lla, to be precise,” said Cid, turned to the other Garlean with that grin of evil, self-satisfied pleasure still firmly in place. “We came across it during the course of our investigations and decided it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

Heron blinked and swiveled her head around to stare at Cid. “Wait, Ultima Warrior—not that thing we fought inside the Fractal Continuum investigating the resurgence in activity after the Liberation?”

“The very same! Well,” Cid shrugged, “ _one_ of the things you four fought. We’re still mining the museum’s databases to figure out most of what’s even on display or in storage there. A warmachina was the perfect starting point—”

“Cidolfus Garlond,” Synnove said, still looking up at the G-Warrior, her voice full of malice, “did you refurbish an Allagan warmachina and _not invite me over to the Ironworks to help?_ ”

Cid froze mid-sentence, eyes widening as the full scope of what he had done—or, better to say, had _failed_ to do—finally registered. Silence descended on the group as they all turned to look at first Synnove, practically radiating affronted rage, and then Cid, gone paler than his shirt; the Warriors of Light watched in anticipation, the Ascian hunters in mild confusion. Rereha took out a bag of candied nuts from her pocket, opening it and shoving a handful into her mouth, chewing as she watched.

“Um,” said the engineer, gaze darting around frantically. “Happy nameday?”

“You sit on a throne of lies, my nameday is next moon _and you know it_ ,” Synnove said, pivoting on her heel to look at him. Galette yawned, finally waking up from her nap, looking around in confusion. She paused when she saw her mama’s expression, ears going back, and immediately hopped down, bounding over to Alakhai and pawing at her knees. The Xaela bent over and scooped the carbuncle up into her arms, letting the construct flop around her shoulders with a dramatic huff.

“Cid,” Heron said gently, reaching towards Synnove, “I will give you five seconds.”

Cid bolted. Synnove lunged forward, but was halted by Heron clamping down on Synnove’s shoulders. Heron’s arms noticeably noticed tensed as she held her sister in place, while the arcanist screeched in rage as she struggled against the Hellsguard’s sturdy grip.

And then, after five seconds, Heron let Synnove go.

Synnove tore after Cid, hollering at the top of her lungs, “ _DID YOU LET NERO IN ON THIS? I SWEAR TO THAL IF SCAEVA GOT HIS HANDS IN ITS GUTS BEFORE I COULD—_ ”

“ _I DID NOT LET NERO ANYWHERE NEAR THE ALLAGAN WARMACHINA!_ ”

_“WHY SHOULD I BELIEVE YOU, YOU LYING LIAR WHO LIES?”_

_“IT’S NOT **RED**!”_

“What is it with geniuses and not thinking ahead about the consequences of their actions, or their lack of action?” Rereha mused as she watched Synnove chase Cid around the forward operating base, still chewing on her candied nuts. “It’s like they don’t _want_ to live to the ripe old age of, like, ninety-six.”

“Do _you?_ ” Gaius drawled.

Heron and Alakhai’s faces both contorted into expressions of terrified disgust, and they immediately slapped their hands over their ears and horns. Alakhai started humming loudly, and Galette shoved her head down the front of Alakhai’s tunic.

“ _Fuck_ no,” said an aghast Rereha, “I’m gonna die at the age of forty-five of combined liver failure and heart attack with my face buried between the thighs of a high-class courtesan after drinking twice my volume in Bacchus wine and coming sixteen times the night before.”

A beat of silence.

Two.

Three.

The former Black Wolf closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose before he slowly let the breath out again in a heavy, sighing gust. “I had to say something,” he muttered, tired and resigned. “I knew better and I had to say something regardless.”

Rereha tilted her head. “How _do_ you know better?”

“Nero’s obsessively detailed intelligence reports, duh,” Alakhai said, uncovering her horns and gently yanking Galette out of her tunic. “He showed you the copies he still had of our files that he put together from his tribune days, remember?”

“Oh, yeah!” said Rereha, face brightening. “The Reach healers thought we were gonna kill ourselves that night, we got so drunk. I told him off for not including that time at the Nightingale’s Grace when the madam agreed to—”

Alakhai hissed wordlessly, making a quick slashing motion across her throat followed by a flicking of her fingers.

Rereha pouted. “Spoilsport.”

Valdeaulin had his hand over his mouth, staring skyward as his shoulders shook and the occasional muffled snicker escaped him. Severa stared at the bard in fascinated revulsion, saying in disbelief, “ _These_ are the vaunted Warriors of Light?”

“Oh, she can be _much_ worse,” Heron said as she removed her hands from her ears in order to cross her arms. She ignored the silent argument of gestures Alakhai and Rereha had descended into, holding out her arm for Galette to jump up onto and stalk up the length of to reach her shoulders. The carbuncle settled around her neck with a loud grumble. Heron idly scratched behind Galette’s ears and stared out at the still-sprinting scientists, dodging around soldiers and supplies and artillery, with a critical eye. “Hm, already starting to flag, I need to let Jessie know to kick Cid out of the Ironworks entirely more often.”

“Surely,” Gaius said, mild exasperation in his tone, “there are better ways of assuring oneself of the physical health of one’s scientist friends than _this?_ ”

The Hellsguard turned and arched an unimpressed eyebrow as she stared _down_ at the former legatus. “You say that,” she said, “as if you yourself haven’t staged false emergencies to get your own flock of nerds to exercise and acquire fresh air.”

Gaius growled something in Garlean under his breath that sounded an awful lot like, _Nero talks too much._

(Alakhai and Rereha briefly interrupted their argument to simultaneously sign, _Point to Heron._ )

Heron smirked and shifted to face the operating base again. She raised her hands once more, but instead she cupped them around her mouth, and shouted out towards the engineer running for his life and the enraged aetherophysicist just behind him and baying for his blood, “ _SYNNOVE!_ That’s enough! If you don’t knock it off, Rere gets first dibs on piloting!”

The enraged aetherophysicist in question swerved towards them, still going at full speed, while Cid took three more steps and collapsed backward to sprawl on his back on the ground with a relieved wheeze. As Synnove barreled back towards the G-Warrior, Ivar forcibly manifested himself and hung from his mama’s shoulder, cackling in glee and tails waving like a warbanner behind him. A single word floated to the group as Synnove kept running:

“ _MINE!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I still fucking hate myself for that goddamn pun of a title.
> 
> Fun fact, though: the original fill was posted on Synnove's birthday! (7th sun of the 5th Astral Moon AKA September 7!) Though obviously that's not how the actual timeline behaves. :D


	9. They Grow Up So Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 8: Clamor
> 
> **SPOILERS** for Ehll Tou's Custom Delivery story line!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 8, 2020.

Aymeric jumped in alarm, quill skittering and blotting stray ink across the report he had been reading, and looked up from his paperwork when the doors to his Congregation office crashed open with loud **_BANGS_**. Nearly every item in the room shook, and the tea in his recently refilled cup threatened to slosh over the rim.

Synnove stood in the doorway, chest heaving as she struggled for breath (she must have taken the stairs), eyes red and bloodshot, her usual crafting attire askew and her braids disheveled. And then suddenly, her lower lip wobbled, tears filling her eyes, and her expression just…crumbled.

Aymeric was up and out of his chair so fast it nearly toppled over, rounding his desk and practically dashing towards his lady to gather her up in his arms. Synnove was not a woman who regularly gave into strong emotion, especially in _public_ , and seeing her like this… He said a silent prayer to the Fury for the foresight of shucking his formal armor earlier in the afternoon as Synnove mashed her face into his shoulder and began to _bawl._

He rubbed her back soothingly, crooning wordlessly into her ear, and rocked her back and forth in a gentle swaying motion, desperately attempting to get his love to calm down enough to draw a full breath. Once her sobs finally began to slow, he very gently herded her further into his office and reached for one door, and then the other, to firmly close them and give them a modicum of privacy. With that taken care of, and the woman in his arms seemed capable of words, he said, “Synnove, what’s wrong? What happened?” He managed to keep his voice steady, thank the Fury, as his own panic would be useless.

His ladylove sniffed, hard, and though her voice came out muffled and hiccupping, she managed to finally wail, “ _She got BIG!_ ”

Aymeric blinked, his mind screeching to a halt. He blinked again. Blinked a third time, as he attempted to make sense of Synnove’s statement.

Unbidden, his mouth twitched, and he fought down the absolutely inappropriate urge to giggle. His shoulders shook, just once, and he ducked his head to press his face into Synnove’s hair before a snicker could escape him, squeezing her tightly against himself.

Of _course._ Synnove normally preferred to maintain a mask of stoicism as much as possible, unless she was so deeply affected by an emotion that it bubbled over beyond her control and she had to ride out the tidal wave of feelings in order to properly process it. And in such cases, it was usually due to some overwhelming _positive_ emotion. For negative emotions, she usually turned quiet and withdrawn, except in rare instances. Thankfully, with a declaration like _that_ one _,_ this could not be one of those rare moments of too-great sorrow.

In fact, he rather had a hunch about whom his lady was speaking.

“Do you mean Ehll Tou?” he said. He barely held back the relieved laugh.

“ _YES!_ ” she wailed again, still face down against his shoulder. “Hautdilong came by and said it had been _days_ since Ehll Tou had gone to the Churning Mists to share her sandwiches with her friends and she should have been back and he was worried and _I_ was worried and so I went to Zenith to find her and deliver the hammer Arvide made for her and one of her friends said she wasn’t ready to be seen and what did that even _mean_ —”

Aymeric ran a firm hand up and down her spine and murmured, “Sweetheart, _breathe._ ”

Synnove sucked in a deep breath and let it out again, shakily. “—and I gave the hammer to Ehll Tou’s friend to deliver but I wasn’t going to leave until I saw Ehll Tou myself and then Arvide and Haudtilong arrived because Hautdilong had gotten so worried and then Ehll Tou finally came and she was **_BI-I-I-I-I-I-G._** ” The last word came out as one of those heaving, hiccupping sobs, drawing it out to multiple syllables.

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and pulled away just enough to offer it to his lady. “Blow,” he said, fond.

She accepted the handkerchief and obediently blew her nose, loud and snotty. Then she folded it in half and blew again, clearer this time, before balling the cloth up in her hand and stuffing it in one of her belt pouches to throw in the laundry at home. With a final sniff, she wiped at her eyes, even redder and more bloodshot than earlier, with the back of her hand.

“Now,” Aymeric said, “what _precisely_ do you mean by she was ‘big?’”

Synnove’s lip wobbled again, but she held onto her composure—barely. “She grew up,” she said, voice watery.

Aymeric blinked.

“It’s—it’s how dragons mature,” Synnove said. “Apparently it can be one big change and it’s affected by both internal and external factors. ‘Sometimes it’s dramatic,’ Ehll Tou said to us.” She sniffled. “And—and she also said hers was fostered b-by learning how to craft, by ‘peace and fellowship,’ rather than being warped by the needs of a war of vengeance.”

Aymeric was experiencing the peculiar sensation of the world seeming to tilt onto its side even as he knew he was still upright as he just _stared_ at Synnove, mouth going dry. He had felt this way, once before, upon learning the truth of the impetus for Nidhogg’s war on Ishgard, and even under more auspicious circumstances, this was _not_ something he had ever again wished to feel.

Synnove didn’t seem to notice that she—and Ehll Tou herself, with her freely given explanation—was effectively rewriting all the knowledge Ishgard had of dragons as she continued in a babble, “She’s not as large as Vidofnir or Vedrfolnir…maybe about the size of aevis?” His lady had begun to fret with her hands and he automatically reached out to grasp them in his own, stilling them before she fell into the old habit of picking at her nails. “And—Aymeric, she has _hands._ Well, not as a man would know them, she still has three fingers as she did when she was a dragonet, but one is as dexterous as a thumb and she can do such fine work with them, as well as any master craftsperson, and her palms are wider so it’s easier for her to hold tools and she made herself new gloves to protect them! _HANDS!_ Ehll Tou has _HANDS!_ ”

At this, her voice cracked and she devolved into more sobbing again, tucking herself close to soak his shirt anew with her tears. He wrapped his arms around her again, resuming his rocking to soothe her and propping his chin on her head as he did so. He smiled and said wonderingly, “All reasons to be overwhelmed, I’m sure. I can think of no better sign of a bright future between Ishgard and Dravania than for a dragon to mature with the conviction that she will live a life of peace and prosperity. But what _specifically_ as you so out of sorts, my love?”

“I’m s-s-so **_proud of her!_** ” Synnove wailed. “She’s so excited to continue forging ties between man and dragon by creating things and teaching her fellows and she grew up and I’m so proud of her!”

Aymeric didn’t bother to hide his quiet laugh, Synnove apparently uncaring as she worked through the emotions storming within her heart, and kissed her hair. He was absolutely going to have to give in to her oft-repeated request that Ehll Tou come to dinner. Though, perhaps it would need to be a luncheon held in the garden…at least with Ehll Tou’s adventures into the culinary arts, Hersande could be assured that their draconic guest would be enthusiastic to try whatever was served.

He had begun to hum softly, a favorite lullaby from his boyhood, to assist Synnove in calming, when a knock came—but not at the door. It came at the _window._

Aymeric jerked up in surprise, whipping his head around towards the back of his office. Synnove apparently hadn’t heard the sound, however, as her face was still buried in his shoulder while she clutched at him, sniffling and hiccupping.

A dragon peered in through the panes of the window behind and to the left of his desk, her brilliant ruby face framed by cream spines. She smiled, huge and toothy, her equally huge brown eyes sparkling with elation, and she waved to him with a three-fingered _hand_ covered in a well-made, fingerless leather glove. A pair of black horns curved up from the back of her head, and carefully pinned or tied in place at the bottom of the left horn, just atop one of those cream spikes, was a jaunty, feathered, _familiar_ hat.

Aymeric stared, his jaw slowly dropping open at the sight before him. But after a moment, he remembered his manners, and raised one hand to wave back.

Ehll Tou’s growling purr of a laugh was just barely audible over Synnove’s hiccups, and then with a flap of her wings, she was pushing away and gracefully wheeling back towards the Firmament, a whooping Hautdilong clinging to her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do my very best _not_ to project onto Synnove, but this was a case where I epically failed (and also did not care XD).


	10. Private Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 9: Lush
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** NSFW - here be smut!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 9, 2020.

Late summer was one of Synnove’s favorite times of year, especially in La Noscea. Brilliant, warm sun tempered by cool sea breezes blew off the Indigo Deep was often the order of the day, and her yard was a riot of color with flowers, shaded by her maple tree. Despite the beautiful weather, however, today was weeding day for the vegetable patch, and so instead of lazing about in a spot of sunshine, she shuffled along her row of tomato plants on her knees at a steady pace, yanking out trespassing sea grass and wandering dandelions with careful ruthlessness. This job was dull, but it was better than beating either her mint or her strawberry plants back into their designated corners of the garden.

A tall, lean shadow suddenly cast itself along the bed, and Synnove grinned as Aymeric knelt down next to her and kissed her bicep, nipping at the arcanima equation encircling the muscle that marked the top of the sleeve tattoo. “Darling, I’m sweaty and filthy,” she said with a laugh.

“What a coincidence,” he said, continuing to kiss and nip his way up to her shoulder, where he briefly paused to nuzzle it before resuming his march towards her neck, “so am I.”

She snickered, but obligingly canted her head to the side, allowing him to mouth at her throat. “Surely fixing the morning glory trellis wasn’t _that_ invigorating!”

Aymeric hummed noncommittally and she gasped reflexively as the sound reverberated through her, causing heart to spark low in her belly. She felt him smirk against her skin, and then he was scrapping his teeth from the base of her neck up to her ear to nib the lobe, smirking wider at the shiver it elicited from her despite the warmth of sun. “Where are the carbuncles?” he purred into her ear.

“Hmm? They’re down at the beach… Oh.” She pulled back just enough to stare at Aymeric with wide eyes. “ _Oh._ ”

His smile was a predator’s, smug and satisfied and she saw his pupils dilate, the black swallowing the ice of his irises. “ _Oh_ ,” he confirmed.

The spark roared into an inferno. “ _Fuck_ yes,” she hissed and darted forward, fast enough her sunhat flew off. Aymeric met her halfway, their kiss desperate and biting, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, lowering her onto her back to lay her down in the grass and kneel between her legs above her, his free hand pinning her wrists above her head and his half-hard length pressing against her thigh. And then she hitched her legs about his hips and yanked his pelvis towards her own and fuck _yessss._

Their kissing turned sloppy as they frotted against one another in a frenzy of lust, forcing them to break apart for breath. Synnove bowed her back to grind herself all along the length of Aymeric’s torso; she wore only a simple halter top for a shirt, her arms and stomach completely exposed and leaving almost nothing to the imagination. The action drew from him that delicious growling noise she loved so much, and, oh, _yes,_ he was fully hard now, straining against his pants, so she did it again and again until her knight used the opportunity to attack her throat, breaking her rhythm as she moaned raggedly. Gods, she wanted his marks so badly, wanted _him_ so badly.

When he reached for her belt, however, the jangle of the buckle broke through the fog of desire and briefly reasserted her sanity. “Not outside,” she gasped out, the sharp buck of her hips less _get inside me_ and instead more _get off me_. “Locked door, we need a _locked door,_ I am not explaining the birds and the bees to the twins today!”

“Excellent point,” Aymeric said as he bit at her jaw. With the barest shift of muscle, he sat back on his heels, pulling her upright with himself so they were still aligned from chest to hip, and then just as easily pushed himself to standing.

Synnove wheezed with shocked lust, just a little bit, as she unhooked her legs and set her feet on the ground, legs unsteady. If she hadn’t already been ready and wet before, being manhandled like she _wasn’t_ six fulms, two ilms of full-grown Highlander woman certainly would have done it _now._ She lunged for his lips again as Aymeric radiated smug pride.

They stumbled through the vegetable garden and then into the house, frantically kissing the whole way, and as soon as the kitchen door was shut and their work boots hurriedly yanked off, they were bolting for the stairs, laughing as they did. Aymeric’s shirt was unbuttoned and Synnove’s halter top untied and their belts unbuckled as the bedroom door slammed closed. One of them turned the lock and in a flurry, off came the rest of their clothes, dropped and thrown around the room haphazardly. Synnove scrambled up onto the bed, flopping unceremoniously onto her back and spreading her legs as she reached for him impatiently.

Aymeric crawled after her, shoulders and arms and chest rippling with lean strength, eyes dark and ravenous, cock hard and leaking against the plane of his stomach, and greedy desire flared in her chest. She licked her lips, anticipation setting her blood further alight and her core to throbbing as he settled between her knees. He caught one of her hands, bringing it to his lips to kiss the array section inked onto the back before turning it over to repeat the gesture on her palm, his gaze locked on her as he did so. Then, without waiting for the levin to finish shivering down her limbs, he grasped the backs of her knees, lifting them and pressing her legs up to fold her practically in half. He leered at her and winked, and that was all the warning she had before he bent over and licked into her.

She shouted, half in surprise and half in delight, thighs straining against his grip at the instinctive urge to clamp them shut about his head. He chuckled against her and the vibrations it sent through her had her moaning and undulating her hips as best she could. As her knight began to work on her in earnest with lips and tongue, she reached down to bury her fingers in his hair, dragging her nails along his scalp that had _him_ groaning in turn, each vibration increasing her own pleasure. Pinned like this, his grip on her iron and bruising, all she could do was writhe and pant and babble encouragement as he alternated between feasting from her cunt like a man starved and suckling on her clit just to hear the pitch of her voice rise higher and higher.

When Aymeric let go of one of her thighs to finally add his fingers to the mix, thrusting two inside her alongside his tongue and crooking them to stroke that sweet spot on her inner wall, she shrieked as she came, back bowing and toes curling and her grip in his hair tightening as white-hot bliss flooded her veins. He growled into her, and that bliss flared hotter, sending her back over the precipice before she had even come down from the first. Distantly, she heard her own hoarse, wordless shouting, felt his fingers curl and stretch within her to prolong the length of her peak, felt his tongue lap between her folds, savoring and cleaning all at once. With a shudder, she let pure euphoric sensation sweep her away while her lover wrung every last onze of pleasure from her body.

Her awareness began to return when Aymeric turned her over onto her stomach, careful of her trembling legs. He nipped the base of her spine, licking at the salt that drying sweat had left behind, then slowly kissed his way up the length of her back. He ran his hands along her sides, palmed and squeezed her ass, stroked her stomach, soothing and claiming all at once while he mapped her anew.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, as he reached the Borel crest at the top of her back tattoo. “All this lovely, golden skin.” He laved his crest. “This firm, warm flesh.” He nipped the meat of her shoulder. “This thick, silky hair.” He nuzzled into the back of her head, breathing deeply. “This gorgeous, wondrous mind.” He brushed his lips against her temple in a gentle butterfly kiss. “So perfect. And all for me.”

Fresh heat and hunger stirred in her belly, as it always did when her Aymeric let himself be wicked and possessive of her. He deserved a reward, Synnove thought, and so she forced her eyes open and turned her head to the side just enough so that she could be clearly heard: “All for you.”

Her knight chuckled, dark and pleased, and then he was coaxing her upright onto unsteady knees. She groaned, the haze of orgasm still clinging to her, but let him manipulate her limbs as he liked; he knew her limits as well as his own, after all, and even as her energy was momentarily sapped, she was far from satiated. He guided her hands to the headboard, wrapping her fingers around the wood, all the while lavishing kisses on her shoulders and spine. She could sense the heat he radiated just behind her, his own high body temperature driven higher by the flush of arousal that spilled from his face down his torso, and she arched back towards him instinctively, a moth to his candle.

Another of those wonderfully dark chuckles echoed from his chest as he caressed her thighs, but Aymeric did not make her wait any longer. As he set his teeth in her nape and firmed his grip on her hips, he thrust inside her in a single gliding movement until he was fully seated, thick and unyielding and absolutely _perfect._

That was how they finished: Synnove kneeling upright on the bed, hands braced on the headboard and knees spread wide, head tossed back on Aymeric’s shoulder as he pressed up along her spine and sucked marks into her neck. He pumped into her steadily, almost leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world, slow and deep and hard just the way they both liked it, his hands roaming across the full expanse of her skin. She whined high in the back of her throat as the head of his cock dragged along her sweet spot, whined higher when Aymeric let go of her breast to skim his hand down her stomach, featherlight and scalding on her hypersensitive skin, curving over her mons to firmly press and stroke her clit.

She choked on a gasp at the new stimulation, and he did it again and again and _again_ until she was overwhelmed and wild, her hips rolling frantically as she cried out for _more more more_ , caught between his body and his hand until she fell apart with a shameless keen. A ragged moan escaped her as she convulsed, every nerve of her being awash with sweet ecstasy, until he clamped an arm around her waist to steady her and quickened his pace to short and shallow and deliciously bruising, chasing his own pleasure. Warmth suffused her, and she distantly felt herself melt into a boneless puddle in his hold, eyes drifting shut as she struggled to catch her breath; her focus narrowed to the heavy smacking of their hips and Aymeric’s harsh breathing filling her ears. But she pushed back the afterglow, just a little, to work her trembling hips and flex her internal muscles, drawing out the rest of her own pleasure and increasing his own, to which he let out a guttural groan. As his fervor mounted and the clap of skin against skin grew louder, she unclenched her hands from the headboard and brought one around to pet the flexing muscles of his hip, slick with sweat, and the other up to run her fingers through his hair, bushing the stray strands away from his brow.

Aymeric thrust one last time, pulling her down to grind her against his lap, and came with a groan of her name, hips jerking erratically as he spilled within her. Synnove peppered kisses along his jaw, opening her eyes to watch the rapture overtaking him and continuing to pet his hip and hair as she crooned wordlessly, and a shaking sigh escaped him as he slumped over her. She bore his weight with a satisfied hum while he tucked his face into her neck, catching his breath, the heavy, humid gusts ghosting pleasantly over her skin. Finally, he gathered her up and carefully lowered them to the bed; she moved her arms out of the way, and he laid them on their sides, his own arms tight about her waist. She snuggled back against him, keeping him inside her while she stroked his forearms and reveled in repletion.

“We should begin to clean up,” Aymeric said at last, quiet and half-asleep, leisurely caressing her stomach.

“Mmm, just a few more minutes,” Synnove sighed. Her knight nuzzled into her hair with a wordless murmur of agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, earlier today: This shouldn't take long to polish.
> 
> [ONE THOUSAND AND SEVEN WORDS OF BRAND NEW SMUT LATER]
> 
> Me: ...


	11. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 10: Avail
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Verbal abuse, implied emotional neglect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 10, 2020.

Mother had been castigating her for half a bell now.

Synnove had known coming home for winter break would be a mistake, but she had done so anyway, despite the invitations of some of her classmates to stay at their homes, or the offers of others to bunk up in the dorms together. Despite the trepidation of having to face Mother after six moons of being out from under her thumb, she had wanted to see Aunt Angharad, and Rereha, and Dancing Heron. She probably should have taken up Rere’s offer to stay with her, though…

She kept her head down, and her hands demurely folded in her lap. She had tuned Mother out almost as soon as she had taken a seat in Mother’s office; absolutely nothing she was saying was a surprise. For the most part it had been variations about how dare she go off to the Arcanists’ Guild on her own without approval—never mind that it was Aunt Angharad, as the Greywolfe matriarch, who had the authority to sign any permissions the Guild required for students still legally minors in the eyes of the thalassocracy, the point was that it hadn’t been _Mother’s_ approval—with the occasional disparaging remark about how the streak of bright grass green she had dyed into her hair was uncouth, how Limsa Lominsa was filthy and lawless and barely a city…

There were some other things, of course. None of them were new.

Honestly, the biggest surprise was that Mother was apparently so enraged at all. Synnove was almost tempted to believe that she cared.

And then:

“What use would _arcanima_ be of in business, in any event?” Isolde Greywolfe sneered, saying ‘arcanima’ as if it was something foul.

She was, technically speaking, correct: arcanima wasn’t useful at all in running a business. Magic in general wouldn’t get one far in the cutthroat world of Ul’dahn economics, particularly foreign magics; thaumaturgy was what generated influence, and it was less about raw power than it was about the political ties one could forge within the Order of Nald’thal. Magic based so heavily on geometry and higher maths would be functionally useless economically. And the combat tactics taught as a matter of course due to the Guild’s association as customshouse officials—and the potential troubles merchants and their sellswords could bring—were similarly useless, unless the business in question was to become a mage-for-hire, which _certainly_ was not an option in Isolde’s book.

But that was always how Isolde judged anything, wasn’t it? How _useful_ it would be in “business.” Not whether it brought joy, or presented a challenge, or how warm it was or how colorful or because it was simply _fun._

Not whether it made her daughter happy.

Inside Synnove, something _snapped,_ and roaring filled her ears.

“Oh, _fuck_ business,” she snarled, practically spitting the words, before she even realized she was speaking at all.

For a few moments, there was dead silence, the air within the office still and heavy and almost expectant. Isolde gawked at her, her own dark blue eyes huge and disbelieving and… _confused._

Synnove blinked.

…That was, as best she could recall, the first time that she had ever spoken back to her mother.

The rage snapped back into focus, adrenaline flooding her veins, and everything was suddenly very sharp and bright and _loud_ in her vision. Synnove felt her face twist into that feral snarl again as she shouted, “I don’t want to go into _business,_ least of all _your business_ and I _NEVER FUCKING HAVE!”_

Isolde finally recovered from her shock, expression contorting into something grotesque as she spat, “All those tutors—”

“—not for anything actually _useful_ for business except for being some magnate’s trophy bride—”

“—the best gil could buy—”

“And Auntie and Lady Shushuha had to _SHAME YOU_ into hiring ones who actually taught something worth a damn!”

“—and to see the investment go to waste—”

“ _I AM YOUR DAUGHTER, NOT AN INVESTMENT!_ ”

Synnove would later tell Rereha and Heron, as she recounted the incident while her roegadyn friend bundled her in layers of blankets and Rere pressed a mug of spiced hot chocolate into her hands while they sat in the center of Rere’s enormous canopy bed, that at that point, all she had seen was a brilliant, bloody red. Most of her memory of the rest of the row would be hazy; she knew for sure that they had both been _loud,_ and _livid,_ the proverbial unstoppable force running headlong into an immovable object, the resulting energy having nowhere to go except in an awful explosion of truly cacophonic sound and fury. She didn’t know for how long she and her mother had shouted at one another, the strength and volume of their voices rattling every item in the office that wasn’t nailed down and more than a few that _were_.

But now, as she stormed out of Isolde’s office, Isolde shouting after to her to _get back here they weren’t finished with this yet,_ heading for her room to pack and get the hell out of this awful, ugly house, her throat raw and face afire with a flush of anger, her adrenaline only spiked higher, and a savage grin began to tug at the edge of her mouth. She let it grow, until it was a baring of teeth and she was the image of the old Greywolfe war banner, a she-wolf ready to rip out the throat of any who would oppose or threaten her.

Fuck Isolde. Fuck Isolde’s grand plans for rebuilding the Greene family fortune. Fuck Isolde’s expectations for her obedient, timid, skittish doll of a daughter.

What use was arcanima?

For understanding the pieces of reality, imperfect and mutable and wondrous. For reshaping the world into whatever she desired, even into something as simultaneously simple and complex as _knowable_. For paving the road of her future, the future _she_ had chosen for herself. All things of which Isolde had no understanding and never would and never _wanted_ to.

Arcanima was hers, and _nothing_ and _no one_ would take that away from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is the first time I've written Isolde Greywolfe. I legit didn't know it was possible to dislike one of your own OCs. This was also hella difficult to write and edit, and I'm still not entirely happy with it...but this was a really pivotal moment for Synnove. As much as I'm not sure I did it justice, it's no longer just living in my head, so that's a win.


	12. Strings and Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 11: Ultracrepidarian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 11, 2020.

“Arcanima,” said Rereha, idly tuning her violin, “is such bullshite.”

Lucia and Heron hummed in answer, not paying attention to her in favor of their cards. Hilda glanced after at the lalafell and snorted, drawing a card from the deck and glancing at it before dropping it into the discard pile with a muttered, “And here we go.”

Lucia tapped the Watch commander’s shin reprovingly with her foot beneath the table. Hilda tapped back. Lucia nudged her more firmly. Hilda responded in kind.

“Ladies,” Heron said drily, glancing over her cards, “before you get involved in a game of footsie, please recall my legs take up most of the room here and I am _not_ keen to be caught up in one of your public displays of affection. Again.”

Hilda sniffed in disdain, though Lucia at least had the decency to look abashed as the two resettled back to their card game.

The Forgotten Knight was full to bursting tonight with off-duty knights, Watch members, and assorted smallfolk, all generating a low buzz of conversation; the snowfall outside was light enough most of the patrons were comfortable lingering over good ale and hot food instead of making straight for home. The quartet of women had claimed the table closest to the stage Gibrillont had set up for impromptu performances, flagons of ale at the elbows of Dancing Heron, Lucia, and Hilda, and a wooden tray set off to the side stacked with the empty plates and bowls of dinner. Rereha’s wine goblet was newly topped off, and the lalafell took a gulp before returning to her violin, fiddling with the pegs and scowling.

“Shapes to work magic,” she said, as if her friends hadn’t briefly had another conversation entirely. “Who the hells thought that was a good idea? Who the hell decided one day, _let’s distill the sum total of reality into some squiggly lines and numbers_?”

She plucked at the strings with her fingers and, even out of tune as they were, they trilled out a ditty that sounded an awful lot like, _What the fuck?_

Hilda shifted her cards to hold them with one hand, brow furrowed as she reached for her flagon. She picked it up and brought it to her lips, tilting her head back to drink, then almost immediately set the flagdon down with a grumble at the realization it was empty.

Lucia slid over her flagon, full of mead rather than Hilda’s preferred hot mulled wine, with a questioning hum. Hilda accepted it with a grunt of thanks and took a generous swig before returning the flagon.

Heron, meanwhile, plucked Hilda’s discarded queen of swords from the discard pile and set down a run of the queen, knight, and ten of swords before her. Both her friends scowled at her. Heron merely smiled beatifically.

Rereha plucked her A string, grimaced, and fiddled with the fine tuner for the string. “And _then,_ ” she said, “then they decided, _oh let’s use these squiggly lines and numbers and summon some random bit of aether from a rock into something._ ”

Another deliberate strumming across the strings in a pattern that warbled, _Can you believe this shite?_

As Lucia drew a card, Hilda raised her eyebrows over her hand at Heron. Heron rolled her eyes.

Lucia plucked two cards out of her hand and along with the one she had drawn, set down all three on the table before herself: nine of clubs, cups, and coins.

“Buggering shite,” Hilda growled, reaching for the deck. “Ruthless, vicious, definitely cheating—”

“It’s why you love me,” Lucia quipped.

“And then to top it all off,” Rereha said, still deliberately ignoring them in favor of her bitching, “not only did they decide they were gonna summon some random bit of aether from a rock into some nonsense critter, they decided, _let’s make them smart._ ” Rereha plucked the A string again, nodded, and settled the violin beneath her chin while picking up her bow and pulling it across the strings.

 _Absolute lunatic bastards!_ her violin sang.

“So how long did you spend inside Carby today, then, Rereha?” Lucia said with a smirk, resting her chin in her hand while staring at Hilda, who was wordlessly snarling at her cards.

The violin screeched in indignation as Rere jerked her head around to glare at the First Commander of the Temple Knights with offended golden eyes. “I did _not_ ,” she enunciated carefully, “spend time inside Carby today.”

“Suspiciously specific denial, that,” said Hilda, glancing back and forth between her hand and her newly drawn card. Finally, she tossed the drawn card into the discard pile.

“That’s because Carby stuck his head up her nose instead,” Heron said brightly.

The Garlean and the half-elezen looked up from their cards to stare at the Hellsguard, wide-eyed, for long moments. Then they swung their heads around to stare at Rereha instead.

“What?” the Dunesfolk said sharply. “You’ve never had an aether construct decide to rework whatever mathematical doohickey holds his shape together so he can stick his head up your nasal passage?”

“It’s not like it hurt, and it _did_ get you to stop raising Synnove’s blood pressure from touching things you aren’t supposed to,” Heron added helpfully. “Plus, it satisfied Carby’s curiosity about lalafellin eustachian tubes.”

Rereha huffed angrily, hopped down from her chair, and flounced off to the stage in a whirl of pink peppermint hair and sky-blue leather coat. As she did, she began to play a hard, fast reel on her violin, bow flying across the strings, that had some of the tavern patron cheering and rising up to push tables out of the way to make an impromptu dance floor.

“Oh, yes,” Heron said absently. “Tonk.”

She placed her remaining cards down on the table. Four of swords, three of cups, three of coins, for ten total points. Hilda dropped her head, banging it against the tabletop three times, while Lucia sighed and neatly set her own cards down on the table, leaning back in her chair.

“You’re awful,” the Garlean said to Heron, who only grinned and pulled the pile of gil coins next to the deck of cards towards herself. Shaking her head, Lucia added, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the rising sound within the Forgotten Knight as other musicians joined Rereha and more dancers joined the crowd, “Also, there are days that I am _profoundly_ grateful that Ishgardians don’t seem keen to adopt arcanima.”

As Heron laughed, Hilda rapped her knuckles against the wooden tabletop. “From your lips to Halone’s ears,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I did not include as much Hilda/Lucia as I originally wanted to with this edit, but there's more, at least. I must write more of them in the future!
> 
> The Carby mentioned herein, by the way, belongs to my friend Chaemera!


	13. Nock, Draw, Loose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 12: Tooth and Nail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 12, 2020.

When Rereha Reha, at eighteen, threw up her hands, cussed out the Thaumaturge’s Guild, and ran off to Gridania, there were three people who were utterly unsurprised by this turn of events: Dancing Heron, her best friend since before either of them can remember; Synnove Greywolfe, her other best friend for seven years; and Janchette Vainchelon, her archery instructor.

(Well, there were four: Rerenasu Kukunasu, her father, but he was disqualified on the technicality that he was surprised it took her _that long_ to realize just how unhappy she was. His little sunbeam was so very good at egging on Synnove’s rebellion from her mother, but did rather more poorly when it came to bucking off Shushuha’s expectations.)

Janchette was, perhaps, one of the finest archers of her generation—or she would have been perceived as such, had she been born to Wildwoods of the Twelveswood, and not a family of Duskwights living on the nebulous scrubland border of the Shroud and northeastern Thanalan. She had learned her craft helping to provide for her family, and then working as a mercenary until creaking joints forced her retirement. Unlike some of her merc peers, however, she had been foresighted enough to save the majority of her coin, and she had enjoyed the comforts her old family home, now rather more well-to-do than the rough cabin of her girlhood, until a few friends had written to her on behalf of an acquaintance of theirs, whose daughter was keen to learn the bow.

Instructing a rich Ul’dahn merchant’s daughter would probably end up as a fruitless endeavor, the old mercenary had thought, but it was coin, and it would break the monotony, and so Janchette had answered Radiant Opal and Towering Sentinel’s letter, and made her way to Ul’dah.

Little Miss Rereha was all of thirteen summers when Janchette met her and exactly what the elezen had expected: pink hair pulled into a bun secured with a jeweled hairstick, the dark skin of her face soft and blemish free from a regimented care routine, hands lacking calluses, and wearing a pretty sky-blue frock embroidered with mariposa lilies and acacia flowers. She had been starry-eyed and bouncing on her toes; apparently, she had recently learned about the Autumn War in her studies with her history tutor, and had been particularly enchanted by the recorded stories of archers using their bows as makeshift lyres and harps, weaving battlesong to turn the tide of battle.

Janchette had not expected this flight of fancy to last long, not when the young lady would discover how much _work_ was required to learn such a weapon, particularly when she had no experience. Miss Rereha, at least, was well-mannered and courteous for all her exuberance, so while Janchette expected that the engagement would be short, it would not be as unpleasant as it could.

Her first surprise, though she did not show it, was when Rereha arrived at the rented archery range in sensible breeches and short-sleeved shirt, hair pulled back into a single plait, and a plain though well-made yew bow, perfectly sized for a lalafell, in hand.

Her second surprise was that Rereha breathed not a word of complaint when they spent the entirety of their first lesson on teaching her how to draw her bow, instead listening attentively and dutifully performing all the of the exercises and movements Janchette set for her.

“The draw is the foundation for all of archery,” Janchette had explained. She had needed to sit on the ground to properly help Rereha adjust her feet, her posture, the grip of her tiny fingers on the string. “There are plenty of tricks and feats of dexterity a master archer can perform, but if she doesn’t know how to get a proper draw, she’s liable to hurt herself rather than an enemy.”

At the end of the lesson, Rereha’s right arm shook, the muscles in the limb and her shoulder and back twitching from exertion, but she had successfully managed to get a full draw on her bow.

“Very good!” Janchette had exclaimed, genuine in her delight, and Rereha had beamed. “Now, until our next lesson, I want you to practice that draw whenever you can; don’t dry loose, just slowly relax your arm and the bow again. Take a hot bath when you get home and put on some liniment if you need to; you’re working muscles that aren’t yet used to _being_ worked, and taking care of your body is as important as taking care of your bow.”

“Yes, Mistress Vainchelon! Thank you for the lesson!”

And during the second lesson, it had been clear that Rereha _had_ been practicing: her arm still had a barely perceptible tremble, but the draw and hold had been rock steady.

Janchette had admitted to herself that she might have underestimated the story-loving chit.

The real test had come when Janchette had finally allowed to Rereha to live fire. She had had to find a box for Rereha to stand on so she could properly center the target in her sight, but as always, Rereha didn’t complain, even as her cheeks puffed in frustration.

“More lalafell in Ul’dah than anywhere in Eorzea and everything’s _still_ hyur height,” she had grumbled as her teacher made sympathetic noises.

Rereha’s first attempts at firing had been an unmitigated disaster: the arrows only made it a few fulms down the range, if that. It was obvious Rereha’s frustration had been growing, but Janchette had put her foot down early before that frustration could turn into useless rage.

“Don’t worry about aim,” the Duskwight had said. “I don’t care if your shot goes wide. Keep firing.”

They had had to stop and collect the arrows littering the floor, but at the end of that lesson, Rereha had _pulled,_ and breathed, and—

—her arrow had embedded in the wooden wall behind the target, a full fulm wide of the outer ring.

Both Rereha and Janchette had whooped with excitement, and then Rereha had yelped and lowered her arms

“I think I pulled too hard,” she had whined, flexing her fingers and rotating her draw arm.

“And now you know not to do _that_ again,” Janchette had said, even as she had grinned. “Well done, little miss.”

The day Rereha had landed her first bullseye, Janchette had taken the little girl to her favorite tavern to celebrate, where they had served (and still did) the best marmot stew in Thanalan, spiced to eye-watering perfection. Rereha had wolfed down three bowls, happily sopping up the remaining liquid with hot, fresh bread slathered with a thick layer of butter, all while chattering about her music lessons. But she had interspersed the stories about her music tutor and accompanying lessons—she was, apparently, more than proficient with at least four instruments, and was working to master a fifth—with questions about the jobs Janchette had taken as a merc. And, for the first time, Janchette had answered them…though with some censoring.

Eventually, Rereha had no longer needed formal lessons, but she always arranged for time on the shooting range a few times a sennight. Janchette wandered back to her house in the scrubland, but would blow back into Ul’dah on a whim to drag her former student to the range and teach her some ridiculous new way to get a draw on a bow _not_ made for a lalafell. The not-quite-a-lady would still babble happily about her music lessons, ask questions about archery and merc life, but _bitched_ about thaumaturgy and her mother’s desire for her to join the Order of Nald’thal.

“Like, okay, yeah, the giant explosions are pretty cool. Fire good,” Rereha had said during one such training session, drawing back a Gridanian longbow without fuss and adding to the cluster of arrows at the bullseye. “And it’s stupidly easy for me to do, sure, okay, natural talent blah blah blah, but _gods,_ Synnove is the bookworm, not _me._ And _five_ of the Coco brothers are there, Thal take them.”

Janchette had hummed, providing no commentary in favor of keeping an eye on her student’s form, but over bowls of marmot stew after, as had become their tradition, she shared what stories she had of the archers of the God’s Quiver, and an old man who wandered the land but had been recently spotted in the Twelveswood for the first time in decades, a bow on his back but a harp in his arms.

The Wildwoods of Gridania could choke for all she cared, but they _were_ some of the best bowmen in the realm. And even _she_ had heard of Jehantel; even if he gave up no secrets of archery, Rereha would be more than happy to pick his brain about his repertoire of songs, anyway.

So, when word reached of her one of Ul’dah’s most notorious socialites scampering off to the Black Shroud with only a single pack of clothing, a quiver on her back, and a bow in hand, Janchette raised a toast to her erstwhile student.

Rereha would do just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was lots of fun to write, because as much as Rereha is a total goddamn flake and tends to give zero fucks about many things, when she _does_ really like or want something, she is _absolutely willing_ to put in the work necessary to achieve her goals.


	14. A Touch of Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 13: Free Write | Contact
> 
>  **SPOILERS** for _Shadowbringers_ MSQ through the quest "The Wheel Turns."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 13, 2020.

_“What about you, anyway? You must have friends like Seto. Chocobos, perhaps? Come on, you lot tell me something for a change.”_

Well, with an invitation like _that…_

Ardbert was kind enough to let the four Warriors of Darkness clean up, first; Synnove, Rereha, and Alakhai scattered to their individual Pendants suites, and Ardbert patiently waited outside Heron’s suite while the Hellsguard woman shed her armor and took a fast shower, only going back inside once the others returned, freshly scrubbed themselves. Synnove and Alakhai brought ingredients for a hearty stew, and Rereha two bottles of wine.

While Alakhai chopped potatoes and carrots, and Heron cubed the meat, and Synnove divided up the sandwiches for the carbuncles, Rereha regaled Ardbert with a story about how she and her sky blue jennet, Madrigal, had successfully led a group of bandits on a merry chase through the Shroud while the rest of their patrol from the God’s Quiver had freed the bandits’ prisoners.

“If we got too far ahead, she’d stop, turn around, and _wark!_ to get their attention again,” Rereha said cheerfully while Ardbert clutched his stomach and laughed. “Hand to the gods, I wasn’t telling her a damn thing; hells, I kept begging her to stop _taunting_ them, some of those arrows were a little too close for comfort!”

While Heron began a story about the time her destrier, Antoinette, had ended up the surrogate mother of a nest of ducklings, to the destrier’s irritation and Ardbert’s open delight, Synnove seared the meat in a heavy skillet, humming and occasionally rubbing at her chest. Once the stew pot was on the stove—and a generous pour of Rereha’s wine added to the mix—the Highlander shared the tale of how her Chantilly had been instantly enamored of a flyer’s shaffron they had seen for sale in Tailfeather and practically shoved her rider over to the merchant to purchase it. That had set Ardbert laughing once again, and drew out the tale of just how Seto had received the medallion he so cherished.

Alakhai was in the middle of retelling the time her Bansh, bored and looking to start trouble, had stolen Chantilly’s shaffron from right off the other chocobo’s head and played keep away with it all over camp, when Rereha slid off her seat and wobbled for the sideboard where the second wine bottle was sitting in a bucket of ice. Ardbert, however, was in the way, but, well. He was a ghost. No big deal, after all, even if it was probably rude to walk _through_ someone.

A flash of light sparked, blinding everyone as raw aether crackled, and Rereha bounced off the hume’s shins, landing on her back with a _thump!_ and staring up at the ceiling in a daze. “Ow,” she said, reaching up to rub her nose.

Dead silence settled on the suite, heavy and stunned. All of them stared at Rere, who blinked back at her friends before her eyes widened as realization settled on her. All four women slowly swung their heads around to then stare at Ardbert, each of their eyes huge.

His jaw worked furiously, as gobsmacked as the others. “Um,” he finally managed.

Synnove leaned over the table and poked him in the cheek.

“ _Um,_ ” he said again, half in alarm, when her finger didn’t go through. There was another flash of aether, another crackle of sound, but less brilliant, less strident, this time. As if it was settling.

“Experiment time,” Synnove said after another moment of drawn out silence. “Alakhai?”

The Xaela kicked a chair over. Synnove tapped Ardbert’s shoulder.

Ardbert carefully sat down—and didn’t phase through the chair. Blue eyes gone almost too-wide, he reached out for one of the glasses of wine on the table. Unfortunately, though, his hand passed through without either a ripple in the wine or a clatter from the goblet.

“Oh, that is such bollocks,” he said.

“Would you have even been able to drink it?” Rereha said shrewdly. “Or would it have just splashed on the floor as a total waste of good grape?”

“Fuck you, Rere,” Ardbert said without missing a beat.

Rere cheered, throwing her hands up in delight. “One of us, one of us, one of us!”

“All right, all right, time for another experiment,” Synnove said, coming around the table while ignoring Rereha’s chanting. She grabbing Ardbert by the hand and yanked him to his feet.

He yelped. “Good gods, Greywolfe, watch it—”

She ignored him, dragging him behind her as she threw open the suite doors and strode out and down the hall. Her three sisters-in-arms followed them to the door, peering around the frame after them. Distantly, they could see someone else—an elf—coming from the opposite direction towards her own suite. Synnove slowed and let go of Ardbert, turning her head to mutter something to him. He looked at her incredulously, but sighed, shoulders slumping and head shaking, and as they passed the elf unlocking the door to her own suite…

…he walked right through her.

As soon as the elf’s suite door clicked shut, Synnove was bolting back to Heron’s suite, Ardbert hot on her heels. The other Warriors of Darkness stood back out of the way of the door, and Heron hurriedly slammed it shut as soon as Ardbert crossed the threshold.

“What the _FUCK,_ ” Rereha whisper-shouted.

“Could it be related to the Echo?” said Heron.

Synnove shrugged helplessly. “Possibly,” she said. “Our only option to test that would be Minfilia, and that’s not something we can try until tomorrow.”

“Not the Echo,” Alakhai said, pointing.

Both women turned to see what had caught Alakhai’s attention. Heron visibly melted and Synnove starting cooing.

Ivar, disturbed from his nap by the ruckus, had extricated himself from the pile of sleeping carbuncles over by the window and stalked over to Ardbert. The ruby carbuncle was standing on his hindlegs and bracing his forelimbs against the hume ghost’s thigh, glaring up at him and making a sound somewhere between a bark and yowl. _Up!_ He paused, ears flicking, and then chattered, less demanding as he remembered his manners. _Please!_

Ardbert, bewildered, glanced over to Synnove. She smiled and made an encouraging _go ahead_ motion, and the hume bent over, carefully grasping Ivar’s upper body, and hefted the carbuncle up in his arms.

Ivar almost immediately curled up against Ardbert’s chest, stretching his neck out to snuffle at his face curiously, and then turned to face Synnove with a happy chatter. _I like this one, Mama!_

And then he began to purr, crackly like a well-tended hearthfire, rubbing his face against the ghost’s. Ardbert squeezed him instinctively, swallowing heavily while Ivar did his level best to scent mark him. He shifted Ivar so the carbuncle was mostly balanced in one arm, and used his free hand to scratch behind Ivar’s ears, increasing the ruby’s purring threefold and causing him to begin kneading at his bicep. Ardbert swallowed again, clearing his throat. “Damn, I’d missed this,” he said, voice rough. “We never had carbuncles here on the First, of course, at least none that I ever encountered. But. Something soft to hug that returns your affection…”

The Warriors of Darkness exchanged looks, and raised their hands to begin talking rapid-fire in their private sign language.

 _What the fuck._ Rereha.

 _Not the Echo, or not entirely? Carbuncles use my aether. Related?_ Synnove.

 _If we’re the only ones who can see him, should we even bother to do the research?_ Alakhai.

 _What. The fuck._ Rereha again.

 _But if we can touch him now does that mean he_ could _be able to interact with other people at some point?_ Synnove again.

 _I’m giving him a hug._ Heron.

Alakhai, Rereha, and Synnove startled, all three turning to look at her, but Heron didn’t wait for them to regain their words. Instead, the roegadyn took the three strides over to Ardbert, leaned down, and wrapped her arms around him and Ivar tightly, nearly lifting the hume warrior right off his feet.

Ardbert froze, eyes so wide and pupils so dilated it was almost comical. But Heron gave him a gentle squeeze of reassurance, and slowly, very slowly, he relaxed little by little, until finally all the tension went out of him and he was leaning fully against Heron, boneless and half-catatonic from endorphin rush. He raised Ivar up to bury his face into the carbuncle’s side, and Ivar just ramped up his purrs even more.

“Shite,” came Ardbert’s watery, muffled voice against the ruby carbuncle.

The remaining three Warriors of Darkness glanced at one another. Nodded.

And very carefully, they joined the hug, too: Synnove coming up from behind him, Alakhai to his front, and Rereha hopping up to dangle inelegantly from his waist, so that Ardbert was bracketed entirely by the Warriors of the Source. Rereha started humming, something soft and lullaby-like, with Heron joining in as she recognized the tune. The group stayed that way, wrapped around their ghostly brother and each other, as Ardbert’s shoulders shook while he silently sobbed into Ivar’s fur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was basically setup for my fill "[Tonk!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838770/chapters/49826591#workskin)" for last year since that's set about mid-MSQ for the Squad's timeline.
> 
> I love Ardbert a lot.


	15. Suppositions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 14: Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 14, 2020.

On the nights when his mind refused to quiet and he stared for hours at the darkened ceiling of his room, in the Congregation or the manor or the La Noscea house, Aymeric wondered _what if._

_What if his sire had given a damn,_ that bitter part of him whispered. Oh, he would adore Rolandoix and Gwenaëlle de Borel, his beloved Da and Mama, all the rest of his days, would treasure every moment and memory they had given him. But he still _burned_ with curiosity to know the man who had sired him; had he any affection for his birth mother? Had he ever thought about forsaking his vows and leaving the Church to start a family with his mother and himself? Had his father ever regretted his choices?

Or had he always unquestionably placed his personal desire for power above all else?

By design or coincidence, after his installation as the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights—the first time he had ever seen the Archbishop so close, the first time he had seen his own eyes stare back at him from another face and not from a mirror—he had never been alone with Thordan. Always there had been at least two members of the Heavens’ Ward present, and he would not ask his questions before witnesses.

Now Aymeric couldn’t ask them at all.

Perhaps it was for the best. In the wake of the Vault, and his reckless idealism and disbelief and yes, _anger,_ it was so much easier to cast Thordan into the role of pure villain, even as more and more questions and _what ifs_ stirred to the fore of his mind. Had his sire been horrified when he had learned the truth of the Dragonsong War’s inception? Had he been curious about Ishgard’s distant past and its former friendship with the great wyrms of Dravania and their respective broods? Had he doubts as he had accepted the mantle of archbishop, had he questioned the decisions of his predecessors to continue their never-ending war as more sons and daughters of Ishgard continued to die for a _lie_ because prideful, greedy men a thousand years gone had refused to accept the blame of their crime?

Or had he believed the words he spoke to Aymeric that day on his throne when he had first been told them in turn, however long ago? Had he been happy to accept the status quo?

Thordan certainly had had no qualms about using the knowledge, granted to him by Lahabrea, of prayer and aether to grasp for even _more_ power, to make himself a god-king and his Wards his immortal retainers.

(Sometimes, too, he wondered whom among the Ward had struggled with the truth even as their oaths had bade them obey the Archbishop’s commands, whom among them had shrugged without care. He could guess, and was reasonably certain those guesses would be accurate. But in the end, he supposed it didn’t matter: there was little doubt in his mind that at some point, they had been as thoroughly tempered as any of Ifrit or Garuda’s slavish followers, the honorable among them and the not.)

There was no changing the past, but still some wistful aspect of himself asked what could have been. If Thordan hadn’t been power-hungry. If the Church hadn’t lied for a millennium. If peace could have been brokered with the dragons, before Nidhogg’s grief and rage consumed him and drove him to madness. Or perhaps Ishgard had been doomed to suffering the moment Ratatoskr’s life had been unjustly stolen. Hraesvelgr, perhaps, might have some insight into that…but Aymeric wasn’t certain he wanted to ask.

He probably wouldn’t like the answer.

Some would argue that such a change in the past would mean that the joys he possessed in the here and now would cease to be. _That_ was utter chocobo shite. No matter if Ishgard had lived in peace the past thousand years, if he had been lovingly raised by his birth parents, if the Archbishop had chosen a better course for Halone’s loyal followers, he knew with a certainty deep in his bones that he would still count Estinien and Handeloup and Lucia and lost Haurchefant among his dearest friends. That he would still see Count Edmont as a beloved mentor and parental figure. That he would still choose Synnove, and be chosen by her in turn, to bear the gift of his heart.

On the worst nights, such thoughts were the only spots of comfort on which he could draw.

Tonight, at least, before his mind could spiral so far down into blackness that sleep would elude him entirely and it became a battle to remember what he had and would have no matter how the sands of time had run, a huge golden paw reached out of the dark and squashed itself on his face, the pad right on his nose and one toe digging into his eye. Aymeric went rigid with the tension of trying not to jerk upright and dislodge Synnove, Galette, Ivar, and the twins, eyes focusing to stare at the paw as his mind was forcibly halted for a heartbeat. Slowly, he forced himself to relax, one muscle at a time, until he lay boneless once more.

Tyr grumbled. _Thinking too loud, Papa._

“My apologies, Tyr,” he said quietly, lifting a hand off Synnove’s back to scratch behind the topaz carbuncle’s ear. “And thank you.”

Tyr removed his paw and rolled over with another grumble, wordless this time, and shoved his back up against Aymeric’s side. He started up a low, rumbling purr, and instinctively, the rest of the carbuncles—Ivar on his and Synnove’s feet, Galette between Synnove’s shoulders, Roksana on Synnove’s head, and Amandina in the space between his neck and shoulder—took it up, too. Synnove, laying facedown atop him like she was a weighted blanket with her face shoved into the side of his neck opposite Amandina, let out a deep, contented sigh and turned into the Spoken equivalent of puddled mush.

Smiling despite himself, Aymeric let the soothing sound of bell-like purrs and the renewed weight of his beloved banish his dark thoughts and lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written on a very emotionally wrought day. Edits, I think, made it not quite as bleak as the original, but I'm definitely of the opinion Aymeric has a lot of trauma and PTSD and guilt after the events of Heavenward. (Family cuddle piles help on the bad nights, at least.)


	16. Fussing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 15: Ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 15, 2020.

The house was eerily quiet when Aymeric arrived home and his spine automatically straightened as tension snapped through him at the oddity. Synnove had had the day off, and normally on such a day the windows would be thrown open to let in the breeze, an orchestrion merrily playing away while she did chores or prepped dinner and the carbuncles clattered throughout the house and yard.

He opened the front door and stepped inside carefully, eyebrows rising a bit at the late afternoon shadows that filled the interior, not a single lamp turned on anywhere. Faintly, he could hear the orchestrion, but the volume was too low to make out what it was playing. He hung his coat on the rack and toed off his boots, then shoved his feet into his house slippers and padded further into the house, in the direction of the den.

The door to the den was cracked, just a hair, and he rapped his knuckles against the wood. “Synnove?” he called quietly.

An absolutely miserable groan was his answer.

Aymeric pushed the door further open and peered inside. Almost immediately, he felt his heart ache with sympathy.

Synnove was stretched out on the couch, chest flat against the seat but her hips twisted so her legs, tangled around a blanket, were sideways in the manner that meant she was trying to relieve pressure or pain in her lower back. Her face was wan and her skin pale, and she cracked an eye open to stare at him, bleary and pained. Most telling about her current state, however, was Ivar mashed up against her pelvis, front paws hooked over her hip so that he was flat against as much area as possible, and purring so furiously he was faintly vibrating, with little Amandina plopped on her head, directly on her temple, and doing much the same.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said softly, padding over to her. Once he reached the couch, he bent over, reaching behind Synnove to press his knuckles into her lower back while he kissed her forehead. She groaned in relief as he roughly massaged the tense muscles, forcing them to finally loosen.

“Fuck monthlies,” his lady growled.

“Hit you like a rampaging behemoth this time, hmm?” he said, massaging harder. Amandina headbutted his cheek, and he tilted his head to kiss the little carbunclet on the patch of red between her ears.

“Behemoths can be reasoned with,” Synnove muttered. “Was going to make a chocolate-hazelnut cheesecake after lunch to have for dessert tonight, but…”

Aymeric stroked her hair. “Another time, love,” he said. As much as he adored her cheesecake, he would much rather she rest when her internal organs decided this was the month to wage war. And it wasn’t as if she couldn’t make it whenever she pleased. “Where are the other three mischief makers?”

“Down to the market to fetch some things for dinner.”

“I’ll handle that, then. Would you like to keep this orchestrion on, or would you rather I switch it out for you?”

“Could you put one of the comedies on, please? Doesn’t matter which.”

“Of course, Synnove.” Aymeric kissed her forehead once more, and gave both Amandina and Ivar scritches behind the ear (Amandina peeped happily, Ivar grudgingly mrowled), before he pulled away.

Once the orchestrion roll was changed to a comedic performance performed by one of the local theater troupes, he tiptoed out of the den and headed for the kitchen. Once there, he rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and set to the task of dinner prep. No doubt what Tyr, Galette, and Roksana returned with would be easy to cook, but that gave him time to set the table and get the side dishes ready. And, perhaps, dessert. He couldn’t manage anything as decadent as Synnove was capable of whipping up, especially on such short notice, but simple would serve just as well.

By the time Tyr trotted through the kitchen door from the garden, Galette on his heels and Roksana in one of the panniers slung over his back, Aymeric had rice cooked and strawberries for dessert washed and halved, and was beginning to wilt and sauté spinach.

 _Hi, Papa!_ all three carbuncles chorused.

“Hello, children,” Aymeric said, glancing up from the spinach with a smile. “What did you find down at the market?”

 _Tuna steaks!_ Roksana cheered as she hopped out of the pannier, a package full of sachets of fresh peppermint tea held gently in her mouth. Tyr held still while Galette opened the pannier on the opposite side and carefully pulled out a large, heavy package of waxed paper.

Aymeric came over to help Tyr step out of the panniers and while Tyr put them away, he accepted the package from Galette, who headbutted him and trotted off to the den. “Well done,” he said warmly. “These can marinate for a few minutes while the spinach finishes cooking.”

Roksana sat back on her hind legs and waved her front paws excitedly. _Uppies, please, Papa!_

He laughed quietly and scooped her up with one hand, depositing her on his shoulder where she loafed happily. She watched him set the package of fish aside before he fetched a large bowl and filled it with a mix of soy sauce, sesame oil, and fresh grated ginger. Her nose twitched curiously as he unwrapped the steaks and gently laid them in the bowl. _How long will they take to cook?_ she asked as he washed his hands and moved back to finish cooking the spinach.

“Not long at all,” Aymeric said, reaching up to rub the top of her head. Roksana purred. “Just a quick sear on either side, we all like it still raw inside.”

_Is so yummy!_

“Indeed it is, little nereid.”

Once everything was finally ready, and a pot of peppermint tea brewed, he sent Roksana off to fetch her mama while Tyr assisted him with plating everything. Dinner was a quiet affair, with everyone focused on simply eating and keeping Synnove’s tea mug full; Aymeric took the chair next to Synnove tonight, instead of their usual cornerwise position, so he could wrap an arm around her and let her lean against him in between bites of food. Ivar was on Synnove’s other side, his tails draped across her lap and against her stomach, palpably radiating heat.

Dessert was strawberries with clotted cream. Aymeric ate his serving quickly and then stood, kissing Synnove’s kiss cheek as he did. “I’m going to draw you a bath before I clean up,” he murmured.

His lady huffed tiredly, drooping over her bowl. “You cooked, I’m supposed to clean,” she grumbled.

“And today is the type of day where you are allowed to be a useless lump,” he said fondly, stroking her hair away from her eyes. Synnove huffed, though he knew the annoyance was directed at herself rather than him.

Aymeric ended up needing to carry Synnove to the washroom, though it meant Ivar could curl up on her and knead her belly during the walk; barely past sunset and she was exhausted from pain, but unfortunately the only pain potions effective on her cramps also left her nauseous and increased the strength of her headaches. As much as he hated to see her simply grit her teeth and bare it, keeping her hydrated and fed was more important. And Ivar, thankfully, didn’t require refilling like a hot water bottle did.

The constant pain was also beginning to make his lady _crabby,_ and so he didn’t linger in the washroom; there was an art to judging when his fussing crossed the line from _welcomed_ to _too damned much,_ and based on her wordless grumbling while he set her down, any further offers of assistance would be taken poorly. Instead, he double checked that she had fresh towels and a change of ratty-but-comfortable clothes for bed, and left Ivar to keep an eye on her while he went to clean up the kitchen and do the dishes.

Bedtime was thus a little earlier than usual, but not even the twins complained, though they requested an extra chapter from the book he was currently reading to them. Galette tucked in with the girls for the night, ears flicking softly while she chimed a lullaby for her sisters. Ivar, meanwhile, crawled into the banked coals in their room and passed out almost as soon as he curled into a ball among the embers.

When Aymeric slipped into his and Synnove’s room, Synnove was face down on the bed, groaning with relief as Tyr kneaded her back. While he changed into a sleep shirt and pair of pants, he heard her spine make the occasional disconcerting _crunching_ sound of popping cartilage—Tyr was clearly taking the opportunity to deal with her absolutely atrocious case of scholar’s back up near her shoulders in addition to the lower back pain that struck during her exceptionally bad monthly courses—but the hot bath and massage combined had finally resulted in the loosening of all the tension she had been carrying throughout the day. Aymeric flicked the lights off and joined her on the bed; the trio eventually settled with all three on their sides, Synnove in the middle spooning Tyr and being spooned in turn by Aymeric. Tyr snuggled back against his mama and began that deep, engine-like purr of his that had Synnove turning into a boneless puddle.

“Mmmph,” she said, flopping her head down on her pillow. “Thank you both. Love you.”

_Love you, too, Mama. Go sleep._

“I love you, too, Synnove,” said Aymeric, kissing her temple. “I hope you feel better tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you can tell I had a _really_ nasty day Of A Particular Sort when I wrote this, and there was absolutely no way I wasn't going to project onto poor Synnove when we got THAT as a prompt. Sometimes you just gotta write wish fulfillment fic for yourself, though.


	17. Arcane Diagnostics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 16: Lucubration
> 
> A followup to the events of _[Quantum Shenanigans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827763)_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 16, 2020.

“Synnove, have you seen my _WHAT IN THE **SEVEN HELLS.**_ ”

Synnove didn’t look up from peering through her magnifying glass. “No, Cid, I have not seen your what in the Seven Hells.”

“Fuck you,” Cid said with only a touch of heat. “What the hells have you done to my garage?”

“All right, first, it’s not your garage—”

“It’s Jessie’s, yes, I know, get new material.”

“—and second I have done nothing to it except commandeer it for my use.”

“ _Then explain the use._ ”

The Ironworks garage—well, _one_ of the Ironworks garages, the smaller one with only three reaper bays, one of which housed Maggie, currently dozing as a new code upgrade was uploaded to her processing unit—was a large space, with a ceiling twenty fulms high. Synnove had stolen one of Biggs’s prototype wheeled chairs from a workshop and was sitting in it cross-legged within a cleared-out space in the very middle of the garage floor. Galette was flopped in her mama’s lap and cleaning her paws, with Roksana on top of her elder sister and chewing happily on the head of Cid’s missing wrench.

And spiraling around Synnove in her chair was, well.

_Magic._

It was clearly arcanima, but instead of the flat diagrams and arrays on the two-dimensional pages of an arcanist’s grimoire, the shapes were properly three dimensional, formed of aether and complex equations, with even more equations linking the shapes into a ribbon of purple magic. The individual shapes ran the gamut, but the ‘simple’ ones were mostly spheres, given form by the equations and aetheric representation of Synnove’s gods-awful handwriting; of the more mathematically complex forms, Moebius strips, helicoids, and hyperbolic paraboloids dominated. The ribbon of arcanima was a full fulm wide and hung in the air around Synnove, spiraling in narrow loops from the floor halfway to the ceiling. When Cid had walked in, Synnove had been leaning forward, Roksana’s head squishing into her stomach, carefully examining a section of the ribbon with a magnifying glass and using her fingers to gently nudge the ribbon along; the ribbon of magic close to the floor was becoming tightly wound as she shuffled it through her hand.

Synnove finally looked up and blinked at him, brow furrowed. “We’ve known each for six years,” she said slowly, “and I’ve never unspooled one of the carbuncles for you?”

Cid’s expression did that thing when he couldn’t decide to be curious or horrified and so he went with both. “Unspool a car—Synnove, _what?_ ”

_Mommy is performing a full visual diagnostic of my complete array coding!_

…

That was Amandina’s aetheric harmonic.

Except Amandina wasn’t _here._

…Except that Amandina was primarily a levin-aspected carbuncle, and levin aether had a propensity for visually manifesting as purple in color.

The ribbon of arcanima humming and, yes, gently _crackling,_ like static electricity, around Synnove was purple.

Cid’s coffee mug slid from his suddenly lax hand, and was only saved from shattering against the cermet floor of the garage by Galette flicking an ear and summoning a small gust of wind to catch it.

The engineer put his face in his hands and _sighed_. “ _Arcanists,_ ” he said, like it was a particularly foul curse.

Synnove sniffed, and reached out with her opposite hand to a specific point of carbuncle coding to wiggle her fingers against it.

Amandina’s high-pitched giggles rang through the garage. _Mommy, that tickles!_

“Exactly the point, sweetheart,” said Synnove, a smile quirking on her lips. Then she leaned back in to resume going through the black pearl carbunclet’s programming equation by equation, array by array.

Cid finally emerged with another heavy sigh from whatever minor fit he had decided he needed to have to continue functioning. “Looking for whatever bit of equation that let the twins tunnel through space-time, I take it?”

“Mmmhmmm,” Synnove hummed. “Their pearl foci are strange enough, what with the inability to physically separate them more than six ilms before they blink back next to one another. I _did_ include some equations that roughly maps that out, but it wasn’t complete and still mostly theoretical. And I wasn’t planning on seeing how the girls could, well, bend the rules about teleportation and displacement until I had infused more aether into them. Then, of course, they decided to be precocious and _break_ the rules.” She glanced down at the white pearl carbuncle in her lap with an exasperated expression.

Amandina and Roksana both giggled. Galette rolled her eyes.

Cid rubbed his temples. “Why here?” he said plaintively.

“Dim enough it’s easy to read the coding, large enough to fit the whole spool if I needed to flatten it,” the arcanist said absently. “Also, if I waited until I got back to the Guild, someone would distract me with paperwork for something mundane and this would end up _never_ getting done.”

The Garlean bent down to fetch his coffee mug—the little swirling gust of wind dissipated with a soft chime of crystals once he did—and he wandered closer to squint at the ribbon shimmering in the air. “Suddenly your rummaging around in them for emergency field reprogramming makes more sense,” he said dryly. “I’m assuming when you… _unspool_ , the coding doesn’t unroll in a uniform fashion?”

“Correct,” said Synnove. Her brow furrowed as she paused and examined a specific section, then moved on. “The various related functionalities all cluster together, but the clusters don’t obey any inherent order of relative ‘location,’ as that would require actually _assigning_ specific places within the carbuncle for where everything goes.”

“It would be significantly more pragmatic, considering how frantic you get during a mid-battle reprogramming to turn on Ivar or Tyr’s aether grenade function.”

“Oh, I don’t disagree, but the trade-off would be that I’d have to write equations and code for all of that. Not so much a problem for the twins, but Ivar? Tyr? _Galette?_ Dear _gods,_ my grimoires would be a fulm, fulm and a half thick with all the extraneous coding that would require.”

Cid raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s not like you don’t already use yours as a bludgeoning weapon to beat your foes to death in close quarters.”

Synnove smacked his arm, or tried to—Cid nimbly dodged out of the way with a chortle and a sip from his coffee mug. She scowled at him but returned to her work, lapsing into silence once more and staring at a section of a code. She blinked, slowly, and _grinned,_ viciously pleased. “Found it,” she said, sing-song.

_Oh, boy!_

Cid leaned forward. “What’s the damage?”

“I think what Carby did was he…unlocked the blink function and fully incorporated it into their arrays,” Synnove said, still peering through her magnifying glass. “I had it, well, cordoned that section off, for lack of a better term, and the equation also has some additions I _know_ aren’t mine.” She frowned.

“I would like to remind you,” Cid said, in the sickeningly saccharine tone of someone about to savor some serious schadenfreude, “that A’khebica designed Carby to be self-programming.”

Synnove grimaced and muttered, “I’m going to need to have words with him about sticking his nose in baby constructs whose coding hasn’t been fully stabilized.”

 _Oh, Elder Cousin didn’t do that! He just showed us_ how _to do it._ Amandina sounded pleased.

Roksana stopped chewing on Cid’s wrench to yip, _Yeah, we fixed it ourselves!_

Synnove closed her eyes and _sighed_ as Cid began to snicker, delighted and vengeful, at her. “Girls,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Galette chirped, _Aren’t you glad all I ever want is sugar?_

“Don’t push it, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A'khebica and Carby (the erstwhile Elder Cousin) belong to my friend and arcanima-headcanoning partner-in-crime Chaemera!
> 
> Baby 'buncles gonna break ALL the physics! Also the idea of unspooling a carbuncle has been in my head a long time, and as always, it was a delight to finally write it out in full!


	18. Rogue's View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 17: Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 17, 2020.

Staying in the background was, in Alakhai’s opinion, _severely_ underrated.

She had never been one for speaking. Even before she had left the Steppe to train with knives and soft steps and shadows, she had preferred the company of the Noykin’s horses; not because of any particularly great bond like the horsemistresses had with their charges, but because she didn’t need words to communicate with them. Body language, a cluck or a grumble, and the occasional bribe of a poppy seed bun, and she and the horses had gotten along just fine. Foal watch had been her favorite chore, the peace and quiet of the herd ranging about her, nothing but her and them and the open sky.

In Yanxia, she had been expected to _talk,_ to explain herself to her teachers, and often it had been difficult to find the words, even in Xaelan, for her reasoning in the approach to certain missions or techniques. In Kugane, she had been expected to adhere to a specific set of manners that was as foreign as the Hingan language; falling in with the more disreputable elements of the great trade city had been inevitable if only because so many of the enforcers and silencers for the gangs and crime lords much preferred the quiet of their own thoughts. And the quiet ones were generally more likely to share tips—how to move across the rooftops, how to slip by Shinsengumi patrols, who honored their agreement to pay good wages or contracts—with their equally quiet and deferential brothers and sisters than the boisterous braggarts who would inevitably end up on the wrong end of the law’s sword.

Coming to Eorzea had made her more of a novelty than even being a Xaela in Yanxia and Kugane had been, to her growling discomfort during those first days on the boardwalks of Limsa Lominsa. Au ra rarely made the journey so far west, after all, and what few who did on the great merchant galleys were Raen. Falling in with the Upright Thieves had truly been a godssend: not only had she finally found not just a _use_ for her knives, but a _purpose_ , that had been lacking in both Yanxia and Kugane. And from them she had learned how to skulk and stride and carry herself like a Lominsan. There was no better camouflage, even with horns and scales the color of ink and skin browner than any sunburned deckhand and hair the same shade as mulberries, than _acting_ like one belonged. And so she had become just another face traipsing about the wharves and docks and fish stalls, occasionally putting fear into the hearts of pirates who thought themselves above both the Admiral’s law and the rogues’ code.

Unfortunately, being a Warrior of Light was absolutely counterintuitive to her preferred modus operandi of _not being noticed._

Thankfully, she was at least one of four. Gods only knew how things would have gone had she been the _only_ Warrior of Light.

People tended to think of Rereha as the face of the group, but really it was Heron. Heron was…not quite a people person, as Rere would put it, but coming from a clan of career mercenaries and adventurers and bodyguards and Sultansworn, she had been taught how to read and how to _handle_ people. How to speak to them, how to calm them down, how to listen with a sympathetic ear, how to coax the right information from them to get her job done. And also, occasionally, how to ignore them because they were being right idiots and getting in the way.

(That Heron was well over seven feet tall helped _tremendously._ And it was frankly just hilarious to see someone try to be troublesome and be picked up and moved aside by Heron like they were a particularly bothersome dog.)

Rereha, of course, was just a force of nature, and _loud_ besides, not just in volume but in visuals with her pink-and-white hair and sky-blue coat making her mahogany skin pop. She was practically a walking _NOTICE ME!_ sign, in bright colors and flashing lights. And she was a little too gleeful in shocking people, in Alakhai’s mind; being an Ul’dahn socialite of acceptable wealth meant she could get away with saying whatever she damn well pleased and reap few consequences. That she also experienced few consequences elsewhere was probably due to the fact that no one knew what to do with the words that came out of her mouth.

Of course, while Rere was chattering someone’s ear off, she was also somehow milking that same someone for any bit of information worth a damn. Alakhai still wasn’t wholly sure if that was an Ul’dahn thing or a socialite thing. (It was, at least, not just a _Rere_ thing, as Alakahai had met her mother, and it wasn’t until a few days later that she realized just how much about herself she had unwittingly divulged to Lady Shushuha. That woman was terrifying.)

But most of the time, she was just singing a bawdy song with an instrument in hand because she liked seeing the colors people turned when she made the next verse even raunchier than the last.

_Bards._

Synnove was generally most similar to herself, happier to let Heron or Rereha take point and loom off to the side or in the background with Alakhai and exist in comfortable silence while snarking via hand signs. On matters of aetherology and magic, of course, Synnove became much more animated, even _chatty,_ sometimes downright manic when they let her get the bit between her teeth and gallop off into _science,_ and then if the carbuncles were added to the mix…

And then, of course, there were the explosions. How _anyone_ thought Synnove was a rational adult when she cackled like _that_ at a particularly energetic display of concussive and fiery force was a mystery. Ivar got his pyromania honestly, even if Synnove stayed willfully blind to that aspect of her personality.

Alakhai loved her sisters, truly she did, but it was exhausting being swept up into their various shenanigans and keeping up with them. (And like Synnove, she was going to willfully stay blind to how many times she was _egging on_ Rere and Synnove, to Heron’s never-ending exasperation. Sometimes it was troublesome, but mostly it was funny.) Still, though. If their foes were focused on _them,_ that made it so much easier for her to sidle up behind them and shank them in the kidneys and have them bleed out on the ground.

As she said: staying in the background was severely underrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't write from Alakhai's perspective nearly enough, which is a shame because she's quite happy to call out everyone (including Synnove, who definitely need to be called out for being a hypocrite about explosions).


	19. Lominsan Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 18: Panglossian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 18, 2020.

At hearing the measured pace of a soft, familiar tread along the boardwalk, Dancing Heron looked up from her copy of the _Harbor Herald_ ’s morning edition while having a breakfast of spiced fish, and grinned at the sight that greeted her. “Well, well, well: she lives!” the Hellsguard said, pushing out the chair on the opposite side of her table with her foot. “Chair’s pushed out.”

“Thank you, Heron,” said Y’shtola, voice rough. She skimmed her hand along the table as she shuffled forward; once her fingers reached the edge, she reached out until she found the back of the chair, and then gingerly lowered herself onto the seat. The Scion’s ears weren’t quite pinned flat to her head, but it was a near thing, and her manner of dress was unusually casual: simple linen shirt under corded stays, plain knee pants, and sandals. And, of course, a large pair of dark-tinted glasses was perched on her nose.

Just because Y’shtola could not physically _see_ did not mean that bright La Noscean sunshine wouldn’t hurt her eyes. Particularly after the night she had had last night.

“I’m surprised you didn’t make Baderon feed you a hangover breakfast after how generously he poured the top-shelf whiskey for you,” Heron drawled as she waved down one of Mama Fyrwyb’s many daughters to come take Y’shtola’s order.

“Too much grease for my stomach,” Y’shtola grumbled. “Besides, anyone who’s spent any length of time in Limsa Lominsa knows that if one desires an effective means of combatting the poor decisions of the previous night, one must beg for deliverance at Fyrwyb Sthalbrydawyn’s fish stall.”

Heron snickered into her glass of cold brew coffee. At that moment, one of Fyrwyb’s daughters—Kyrsslona, with that shock of red hair—arrived, a bright smile on her face.

“Y’shtola!” she cried happily. “Welcome back! We’ve missed you!”

“It’s good to be back,” Y’shtola said, smiling at the Sea Wolf woman. “May I trouble you for a glass of coffee and a bowl of that delectable smelling fish stew?”

“It would be my absolute pleasure,” Kyrsslona said. “Spice level?”

“Mmmm, best keep it at a six,” said the miqo’te. “I need to rebuild my tolerance, alas, and my healer will be cross should I shock my stomach too much while still technically in recovery.”

“Nothing worse than an irate healer. I’ll be right back!”

As the Sea Wolf darted off to fill the order, Y’shtola leaned back in her seat and sighed. “I should not have let Baderon turn my arrival at the Drowning Wench into a reason to get every patron and guest roaring drunk,” she said, reaching up to rub her temples.

Heron took another bite of stew, eyes watering anew as the octopus and crab and wonderfully thick, spiced broth hit her tongue, and politely and pointedly did not reply.

She hadn’t been at the Wench herself, but Alakhai had been, having accompanied Y’shtola on her excursion throughout the city. The Scion had been adamant about refamiliarizing herself with Limsa Lominsa after, from her perception, so long away (and also escaping Revenant’s Toll and Krile’s iron-fisted, hawk-eyed attention for a short amount of time). Per Alakhai’s slurred retelling, they had mostly shopped, and enjoyed the numerous cafés and food barges, and attended a matinee at one of the playhouses. And then they had decided to acquire dinner at the Drowning Wench.

Baderon had certainly known of the Scions’ recovery after their souls’ return from the First from Slafborn—Revenant’s Toll was, after all, the unofficial fourth branch of the Adventurers’ Guild, and all of its leaders were unrepentant gossips (excuse her, _keen sharers of pertinent intelligence_ )—but it was one thing to _know_ and another to _see_ a friend after she had been laid low by an unknown affliction. The Wench’s proprietor had, according to Alakhai, leaped over the counter, bowed, and, with the lady’s mockingly grave permission, swept her up into a hug.

At which point he had decided it was time to celebrate, and everyone in the Wench should partake of the festivities, and the alcohol had flown _very_ freely.

As side-along teleportation while intoxicated could lead to some very unfortunate accidents, Alakhai had poured Y’shtola into one of the Mizzenmast Inn’s beds, and then she had managed the teleport to Synnove’s house and stumble inside while Heron and Synnove were prepping for bed. She had not, in fact, been speaking in Eorzean Common when she had recounted the events of the day in between chugging the cups of water they had kept handing to her. Thank the gods for the Echo.

Kyrsslona returned with a glass of cold brew coffee and a large bowl of fish stew: tuna, crab, octopus, mussels, and shrimp, in a broth made from coconut milk and tomato and the stock the octopus had first been cooked in to sweet and tender perfection, the broth further enhanced with peppers, garlic, and assorted spices Heron didn’t bother to differentiate, she just knew they were delicious. The waitress set them both in front of Y’shtola and took a heavy metal spoon from her apron, placing it in the bowl. “Enjoy!” she said, and hurried off to help the next customer.

“Cream is half a fulm in front of you,” Heron said. “Glass has about two ilms of room.”

Y’sthola murmured her thanks, reaching out and carefully grasping the jug of cream while holding her glass of cold brew coffee steady with her opposite hand. She poured for two seconds and then set the jug back in the center of the table; the glass she left alone, letting the cream muddle with the coffee, and picked up her spoon. She stirred carefully until she had a few different things—octopus and some mussels, from what Heron could see—on her spoon, and leaned over to take a bite.

Her ears flicked as she chewed, and a purr briefly escaped her, and then Y’shtola was enthusiastically tucking into her breakfast. Heron went back to her paper, sipping at her own coffee as she did.

When Y’shtola was halfway through the bowl and looking marginally more like a functional person, she sat back with a pleased sigh and said, “And what brings you to Limsa Lominsa today, Heron?”

“Oh, babysitting the twins,” the roegadyn said. “Synnove is on assessor duty today with Galette and Tyr.”

“Troublemakers expected in port, then?”

“At least three.”

Y’shtola grimaced in sympathy.

Heron drained her coffee glass. “Also, Rere was planning something, and I want to see how she’s getting launched out of the Gate.”

At that precise moment, a loud _BANG!_ rang out across the harbor and a shrill scream broke the calm of the early Lominsan morning.

“Ah. There it is.”

Both women—and a few of the stevedores, arcanists, and fisherfolk having breakfast among the Hawker’s Alley food stalls—turned to face the direction of Mealvaan’s Gate. Smoke rose from the top of one of the research laboratory towers on the far side of the Gate, and a pink-and-blue object arced out towards the open harbor, its screams fading the further into the distance it traveled.

“Oh, good gods,” Y’shtola said, “the emergency ejection system? Really, Rereha?”

“One day she’s going to learn not to touch things she shouldn’t,” Heron said wistfully.

Y’shtola snorted loudly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of those prompts where I went ??? and just started writing. But hey, worldbuilding and Scion friendship, what more could anyone want?
> 
> Mama Fyrwyb and her spicy fish concoctions first appeared in my FFXIV Write 2017 fill "[Vuelve a la Voda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12883359/chapters/29486091#workskin)"!


	20. Points of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 19: Where the Heart Is
> 
>  **SPOILERS** for Shadowbringers through the end of Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 19, 2020.

“I’m sorry, but that’s _definitely_ a dick.”

“For _fuck’s_ sake, Rereha.”

“Listen, if you want me to be more descriptive, I can tell you _whose_ dick I think it is.”

Heron moaned in pain, covering her face with her hands. Alakhai started cackling, quiet and whispery. Synnove reached over Alakhai to whack Rereha with her pillow, but the lalafell quickly ducked into her bedroll with her own strident cackle to avoid being hit.

“You’re my little sister!” Heron said from behind her hands. “Stop putting those images in my head!”

“It’s funny!” Rere said as she popped back out of the bedroll.

“No, it’s not!”

The First was saved, Elidibus was defeated, and the Scions were returned home safe and sound at long last. So once the homecoming celebrations had tapered to an end, and their friends on the First assured of the Scions’ health, the Warriors of Light had loaded up their chocobos with supplies and vanished into Abalathia’s Spine for a handful of days. They had found a mountain meadow, set up camp, and for a short time, forgot about the worries of the world to fish and hunt and laze about in the sunshine.

And at night, as they always did on these excursions, they watched the sky, making new shapes in clouds and stars alike as the whim hit them, until sleep finally took them.

They hadn’t done this since the time they had with Ardbert, before the assault on Eulmore and the situation has cascaded so far beyond their control, right up to the proverbial gates of hell. Unlike that time, or the all the myriad times before, this time they had set up their bedrolls right next to one another rather than spread out around the campfire, with Heron and Synnove on the outside and Rereha and Alakhai between them.

But, as Rere proved, some things _never_ changed.

The quartet settled down again, idly gazing at the spangled heavens while Rereha hummed something under her breath. A few more murmured observations were made—shocking no one, Synnove saw Amandina and Roksana cuddled around one another in the shape of a passing cloud, and Alakhai decided a cluster of stars near the Bole was a spiked mace—before silence reigned once more. Sleep began to pull at more than one of them.

Finally: “Synnove,” Heron’s voice broke the silence, “do you still have that soul crystal?”

“Mmmzhat?” the Highlander muttered, rubbing at her eyes.

“Azem’s.”

“Yeah,” Synnove said, jaw cracking on a yawn.

“May I see it?”

“Mmm, second.” Synnove wiggled her arm out from under Tyr and flailed it on the ground beside her until her hand hit her pack. She hooked her fingers in the strap and pulled it closer, opening it and rummaging around without looking. After a few moments, she pulled out the orange crystal and tossed it to Heron, arcing over Alakhai and Rere, who both tracked its passage, suddenly wide awake themselves. The Hellsguard’s hand shot up to catch it with ease, and she brought it down close to her face to examine it.

After a long, thoughtful pause, she said, “Where do you think Azem’s soul is?”

“Having a well-deserved vacation,” Rere said, with no hesitation.

Heron handed the crystal to Rereha, who sat up and turned it over in her hands slowly, staring down at it with an oddly pensive look on her face. “Somewhere tropical,” the lalafell finally added, “with good food and better booze and the _best_ eye candy.”

“Rereha,” they all sighed.

“All right, so I’m projecting just a little bit,” she said as she handed the crystal to Alakhai. Then she flopped backwards, snuggling back down into her bedroll.

The Xaela held the orange crystal up, turning it from side to side as she examined it. Somehow, despite facing downward, away from the light of the stars and sliver of moon hanging above, the sun sigil carved into its face still glinted.

“But they certainly aren’t _here,_ ” Alakhai said. She returned the crystal to Synnove, who dropped it into her pack and resettled herself under Tyr.

Three sounds of murmured confirmation.

“Doesn’t feel right,” Synnove mumbled around another yawn, once more falling back asleep. “Holding the memory, atop the Crystal Tower, it felt familiar, but it didn’t feel like it was _me_ , or any of you.”

“Not any of us,” Heron agreed, “but…perhaps we knew them?”

“ _That_ feels better. I like that. Someone we knew and loved. That ache at suddenly being reminded of someone who’s gone.”

Rereha shifted around so that her hands were behind her head. “Hythlodaeus did say Azem would resolve matters themself with their comrades rather than refer back to the Convocation,” she said. “Proto-adventuring, sounds like, which means you need fellow adventurers. And adventuring has a tendency to forge some pretty fierce friendships.”

“Might explain some of Emet-Selch’s bitterness towards us, if he recognized our souls as other friends of Azem,” Alakhai said as she pulled her blanket a little higher over her shoulders. “He struck me as a bit of a possessive bastard.”

“Hard to acknowledge your friend can have _other_ friends,” Heron murmured.

“We seem to manage just fine!”

“Not stewing in it for untold millennia, on top of the trauma of everything you know in the world taking the express carriage to the lowest hell, probably helps, Rere.”

“…Fair.”

“Got over himself at some point, though,” Alakhai added. Heron hummed agreement.

Silence settled anew, sleep dragging at all of them now. And then, just before she drifted off entirely, Rereha said, “S’nice, though. To think we’ve been through shite together before. That we keep finding one another in each time the Lifestream spits us back out.”

“Aye,” said Heron, voice only a little slurred. “And who needs a perfect world, anyhow? That’s boring. Just have a couple of sisters at your side—or brothers if that’s how that turn about the sun goes—and things will turn out just fine.”

Rereha, Alakhai, and Synnove all mumbled or sighed agreement. After some shifting into more comfortable positions, sleep finally claimed the quartet, deep and dreamless, beneath a blanket of glittering stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is basically a fic format of a [headcanon](https://dragons-bones.tumblr.com/post/626269534516658176/53-musings-spoilers-ahoy) I have regarding Azem for my own Squad, and as you can see, it's basically, "none of them are the sundered soul of Azem, but they are the sundered souls of some of Azem's non-Amaurotine friends." I was just personally never interested in any of original pre-5.3 theories that the WoL was the 14th Convocation member, so this is me reconciling canon with my headcanon!
> 
> Contains references to "[Stargazing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807621/chapters/39986136#workskin)" (FFXIV Write 2018) and "[The Sunless Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838770/chapters/50583833#workskin)" (FFXIV Write 2019).


	21. A Languorous Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 20: Free Write | Consort
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Smut! NSFW!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 20, 2020.

Synnove drifted back to consciousness slowly, eyes and limbs and whole body still heavy with fatigue. The bed was warm from generated body heat, but she could faintly sense sunlight spilling across the top of the comforter, too. More than those two facts that were wanting to lull her back to sleep, however, was the firmly muscled body pressed up against her own.

She tilted her head to bury her face in Aymeric’s neck, breathing out slowly. Now that she was, unwillingly, awake, she couldn’t help but notice how everything _ached._ Her arms, her back, her thighs, her hips… But then, facing off with the Alliance’s best and then going toe to toe with the Bull of Ala Mhigo himself would result in more than a little stiffness.

Particularly when rather than decompressing after the impromptu victory party that it seemed all of Ishgard had partaken in by doing something sensible, like taking a hot bath, she and Aymeric had retreated to his office for a more…private celebration.

A smug grin tugged at her lips. The marks he had left on her neck and shoulders would take days to fade, and she hadn’t imagined their first time together would have been quite that feral, but she had no regrets.

A deep chuckle shook the chest beneath her, and she felt Aymeric shift to lean over and kiss her temple. “I know you’re awake, my lady,” he murmured into her ear, his voice still rough with sleep. “You’re smugger than a coeurl who’s gotten the cream _and_ the canary.”

Synnove snickered and let her head fall back against the pillow, finally cracking her eyes open as she did.

Aymeric’s face swam into focus above her and he used his elbow to prop his head up and grin at her. She grinned back and reached up with one hand, despite the twinge in her arm, to comb his hair out of his lovely blue eyes, lightly scratching against his scalp as she did. His eyes closed and a shiver ran through him at the action, a quiet groan escaping his throat.

Synnove laughed softly, raking her hand through his hair one more time before withdrawing to extend her arms above her head and stretch. Doing so reminded her still sleep-addled mind of how their legs were tangled together, of how naked they were beneath the bedclothes, and another satisfied grin crossed her lips.

As she bowed her back and pressed her breasts against Aymeric’s own bare chest, muscles and tendons and ligaments all tensing and lengthening as she enjoyed a luxurious stretch, her knight bent down and kissed the bruise on the juncture of her neck and shoulder, the one he had taken particular pleasure in forming on her skin with how often he had come back to it the previous night, compared to all the others he had left on her skin. Synnove tilted her head out of the way, letting go of the tension in her limbs to collapse in a content, boneless puddle on her back, while Aymeric mouthed at his mark and pressed her into the mattress with a rumble of contentment. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and nuzzled his ear, then nipped at the tip, snickering when Aymeric groaned again, louder, his hips involuntarily rolling against her thigh before he forcibly stilled them.

“Succubus,” he growled against her skin, and set his teeth against her bruise in reprimand.

Syrup-like heat flowed down her spine to pool in her belly, and Synnove laughed breathlessly even as she squirmed in his hold and gasped out, “You said that last night.”

“And it’s still true.” Aymeric let go of her neck and kissed the soft spot beneath her jaw. Then her chin. Then her beauty mark. And then, finally, her lips, shockingly gentle in comparison to his teeth in her throat, more nuzzle than kiss.

Synnove sighed happily, bringing her other arm up to wrap around him as her eyes drifted shut. “Good morning, Aymeric,” she whispered against his lips.

“Good morning, Synnove,” he said in kind. “How are you feeling?”

“Mmm, sore. But happy. You?”

“The same.” He drew back to brush gentle kisses against her eyelids, and she sighed again and placed careful kisses of her own against his cheek and jaw.

They stayed like that for long moments, their lips gravitating back together, and simply traded soft kisses while pressing as close as possible, until Synnove was drunk on Aymeric’s adoration. Arousal was a steady simmer within her, sparking with every brush of her knight’s hard length against her thigh, every rub of his hand down her arm or torso or hip, the build-up slower than it had been last night when they had been high on adrenaline and victory but no less heady. Their kisses kept deepening until they were almost panting against one another, and Aymeric shuddered and gasped when she gently ran the tips of her fingers down the welts she had raked into his back last night.

In wordless invitation, Synnove parted her legs and bent her knees to brace her feet against the mattress, cradling him between her thighs. He groaned into their kiss, the rumble of it deep in his chest reverberating through her in turn, to her shivering delight.

Aymeric, eyes blown wide with desire, drew back just enough to murmur against her lips, “Are you sure, my love?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please, Aymeric.”

He groaned again, pressing forward to kiss into her hungry mouth, and reached between them to carefully stroke his fingers between her folds, checking her readiness for his own satisfaction. A flood of affection filled her at the action, from both the softness of his touch and the knowledge of his attentiveness towards her comfort, that quickly morphed into roiling ardor when he withdrew his hand and teased to head of his cock against her in a deliberate reminder of how she had done similar the night prior. She hooked one leg around his waist and buried her right hand in his hair and clutched with the left at his shoulder, pulling away from their kiss to whimper, “ _Please._ ”

With a satisfied growl, he canted his hips forward, perfectly filling and stretching her until he was fully seated inside and pinning her to bed. She moaned, high and needy, and wrapped her other leg around him, locking her ankles together and arching her back to keep him as close as physically possible.

This morning, their lovemaking was slow and tender and unhurried, though no less passionate than the raw, wild couplings of last night. Synnove lost herself to sensation: the weight of Aymeric inside her and around her and on top of her; the warmth of the early sunshine seeping like treacle into the blankets above them; the flex of the muscles in Aymeric’s back beneath her hands, in his hips between her legs, with every sure movement; the softness of his lips as he kissed her mouth and cheek and jaw and neck and wherever else he could reach. She _burned_ with equal parts love and lust and joy, swept away on the tide of her lover’s adoration.

“My brilliant, fierce Synnove,” Aymeric said to her, his voice gravelly with desire, in between nipping new marks into her throat and refreshing the old. “My beautiful lady, as glorious in my bed as on the battlefield.”

“Yours,” she purred, hitching her legs higher to chase the delicious friction his thrusts gave her mons and using the hand in his hair to guide his head up to kiss her. As they panted against each other, she brought her other hand from his back to stroke down his biceps, his forearm where the tendons strained as he held himself above her, the back of his hand and the ridge of his knuckles. He turned his hand over to meet her wordless request, and then their palms were clasped and fingers laced together. She sighed and brushed her lips against the apple of his cheek, saying again, “Yours, my handsome lord, my brave knight.”

“Mine,” he growled, pressing his forehead against hers and staring down into her eyes, “as I am yours in turn.”

When Synnove finally crested, it was with Aymeric’s gaze still locked upon her, their rhythm as steady as it was when they began. That syrup-like heat of earlier spread from the spot low in her belly to every ilm of her body in a thick wave of molten bliss, leaving her shuddering and gasping and smiling; it wasn’t the intensity of the white-hot fire Aymeric had stoked within her last night that had stolen her coherency and higher thought, transforming her into a wanton wreck, but it was just as potent, as wonderful, and its wake set her adrift in boneless satiation. And, more importantly, it let her watch her knight’s flushed face while rapture overwhelmed him, his eyes briefly fluttering shut as his hips stuttered in the vise of her thighs and he spent, shivering, inside her.

They nuzzled their noses together as they caught their breath, petting and stroking one another as aftershocks trembled through themselves. Aymeric reached out blindly for the bedside table as they kissed, grabbing one of the extra cloths he had left there last night. He helped her unwind her shaking legs from his waist, caressing and kneading into her calves as he did, and sat back on his heels. As he did, he slipped free from her, to his groan and her bereft sigh, then set to the task of cleaning her, his touch thorough but gentle, and then himself.

The soiled cloth was tossed somewhere in the direction of the basket used for laundry, forgotten as Aymeric gathered her up into his arms and rolled them onto their sides. Synnove sighed again, content this time, soft with afterglow as she nosed against his skin, reaching up to lightly pet his collarbone and shoulder, fingers sliding in residual sweat. Her knight ran his hand up and down her spine in the sweet, luxurious strokes she already had come to love, his lips against the crown of her head. She snuggled closer, eyes drooping; just a small nap would be perfect—

—and a clatter came from the small receiving chamber in Aymeric’s rooms.

Synnove stilled in surprise, eyes going wide, fully alert and tense. Aymeric dropped his head to her shoulder with a rueful laugh.

“What was that?” she said.

“The dumbwaiter,” Aymeric giggled. “I’m sorry, love, it’s not actually funny, but the last time the Congregation’s kitchen staff bothered to use the dumbwaiters, rather than force everyone to stumble to the mess for breakfast, was after the defense of the Steps of Faith.”

Her stomach growled in interest at the mention of food, but Synnove ignored it to take a minute to process the statement, and blinked. She glanced at him askance, and said admiringly, “Gods, but you Ishgardians party hard, don’t you?”

“It’s the consequence of being serious and uptight most of the time,” Aymeric said with a teasing lilt, raising his head to grin at her when she broke into peals of laughter. He kissed the tip of her nose and added, “I’ll be right back.”

Despite the assurance, they both groaned when Aymeric rolled away and off the bed. Synnove reached for him, and he turned to brush his lips against her shoulder before he batted her hands away and escaped. She flopped down with a grumble, unhappy with her nest of warm blankets and handsome lover being so disturbed—but _very_ much admiring the view as Aymeric strode out of the bedroom of his quarters.

 _All mine,_ crowed a gleefully possessive corner of her mind.

In a few moments, he returned, carrying a large tray upon which balanced a few covered dishes, a carafe of hot coffee, a pot of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes…and _two_ large ceramic coffee mugs.

Synnove stared as she pushed herself upright, curling her legs beneath her to sit cross legged and pulling the comforter up over her breasts, tucking it beneath her arms, to keep herself warm. “All right,” she said, “I’m impressed. That’s a _very_ fast grapevine.”

Aymeric shook his head with a laugh, pausing next to the bed as Synnove flattened and smoothed out the blankets before setting the tray down in the newly cleared spot. He climbed back into bed next to her and she curled into his side, nosing into his shoulder while he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“We weren’t exactly _quiet_ last night, my lady,” he drawled against her temple, “either here or in my office.”

“If anyone was loitering that close to your office or your rooms,” she said imperiously, “then they were being voyeuristic busybodies and should have minded their own business, or gotten laid elsewhere.”

Aymeric snickered and reached over to uncover the plates.

Breakfast was simple but filling: roast beef hash, the sight of which alone had both their stomachs growling even before the scent of garlic and onion and browned meat hit their noses; soft-boiled eggs served with a tangy sauce in which to dip them (“Not bad, but needs more spice.” “Darling, your idea of spice is terrifying.”); brioche buns filled with strawberry custard, the buns still so hot they steamed and the custard oozed; and fresh melon, sweet and juicy, that likely had been grown in one of Ishgard’s myriad greenhouses. They settled in to eat in companionable silence, passing the coffee carafe back and forth to refill their mugs as they needed, and, in the case of the custard-filled brioche, wiping away the resulting mess with quiet, teasing laughs. Aymeric kept his arm around her the entire time and Synnove found herself dozing in between bites of breakfast with her cheek on his chest, lulled by both the heat he radiated and the food filling her belly.

Once they were finished, Aymeric got up again—Synnove didn’t whine, but it was a near thing—to send the empty tray back down to the Congregation kitchen. When he came back, it was to find her snuggled down amongst the pillows, blinking at him sleepily over the blankets pulled up to her nose.

He chuckled at the sight, his face going soft and fond, and crawled under the covers, gathering her up in his arms once he was settled. They both sighed contently, and Synnove shifted just enough so that she could burrow into the crook of his neck once more with a happy noise in the back of her throat. Better than sex, better than food, was being wrapped up in her knight’s strong arms and forgetting the rest of the world for just a little while longer.

“I think, this once,” Aymeric murmured with a kiss against her brow, “we are allowed to be a pair of laggards.”

“Excellent,” Synnove said, eyelids heavy. She rested her hand over his heart, taking comfort in the strong, steady thump beneath his breastbone. “Love you, my Aymeric.”

“Love you, too, my Synnove.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is obviously set immediately post-Grand Melee in Patch 3.2, and is also set the morning after the fic at the top of my WIP pile known currently as the Post-Grand Melee Victory Sexing Fic. It is pure unabashed smut, and I've been working on it in fits and spurts for months (though it's an idea I've had since I first did 3.2's story).
> 
> The original version of this was intended to be smutty but I wasn't satisfied and went with just fluff. But now there's smut _and_ fluff, win-win!


	22. Fedarloh Fulltouch Chalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 21: Foibles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 21, 2020.

“Where is,” Synnove said, face stony and cold, voice dripping with deadly malice, “my chalk.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Rereha. She was very carefully _not_ looking the other woman in the eye, even as she was being dangled right in front of the Highlander’s face by the back of her coat.

Synnove’s expression didn’t so much as twitch, but the deep, rumbling _groooooooowl_ now filling the room was absolutely coming from her throat.

Halulu shoved another handful of popcorn into her mouth and held out the bowl to Nero, sitting next to her on the couch. The former tribunus snagged his own handful and popped a few kernels into his mouth, chewing as he paid rapt attention to the scene before them.

“You were in my office,” said Synnove in that same awful, poisonous tone, “unsupervised. My chalk was in its usual _locked_ drawer in my desk before your arrival. My chalk was _not_ in its usual _locked_ drawer, or any drawer for that matter, after your arrival.”

“Have you checked for spriggans recently?” said Rereha, smiling beatifically, hands clasped before her innocently, as if she wasn’t staring death right in the eye. “There’s a couple of varieties from the Shroud that favor softer stone over gems; I wouldn’t be surprised if they had somehow made their way here, or one snuck in via a gemstone shipment!”

Somehow, Synnove’s expression became even stonier. “You have ten seconds to give me my chalk.”

“Or what?”

“Or I tell Aunt Angharad.”

Neither Synnove, Halulu, nor Nero blinked, but between one moment and the next, Rereha was holding out a small wooden box, right beneath Synnove’s nose. The Highlander stared down at it, eyes crossing to bring it into focus.

“Open it,” she said.

Rereha dutifully popped open the lid.

Synnove peered inside and was silent for a few moments as her eyes flicked back and forth, counting the contents. Then, apparently satisfied, she nodded.

Rereha put the lid back on.

Synnove took the box with her free hand, and set Rereha down.

Rereha immediately bolted for the door to the office, grabbing the jamb to use her momentum to swing her around into the stairwell—and shrieked, because said momentum was too much for her to be able to slow down in time to prevent herself tumbling. The sound of a body rolling down the stairs was distinct, as was the _THUMP_ of one hitting the wall of the next landing down. A very faint, chipper, “I’m all right!” drifted back up to Synnove’s office.

“That woman,” Halulu sighed.

“How does she not break bones more often?” Nero said as he chewed the last of the popcorn.

“We’re fairly certain Hydaelyn likes her best,” Synnove said, absently petting the box containing her chalk and actually crooning wordlessly to it for a moment. Then she frowned, brow furrowing, and glanced up to stare at Nero with narrowed green eyes. “Where did you come from?”

“I arrived about when you were chasing Rereha around your office like a particularly demented game of cat and mouse,” Nero said, brushing his hands clean.

“…That didn’t actually answer the question I asked, but I’ll allow it.”

“Tit for tat: _why_ are you petting that box like it’s one of your carbuncles? Your obsession with chalk is well-known, but typically only mildly concerning.”

“This,” Synnove said, holding up the box in one hand and gesturing at it with the opposite hand, “isn’t just _any_ chalk. This is my stash of Fedarloh Fulltouch Chalk.” Her tone was reverent, adoring, almost uncomfortably similar to how a primal’s tempered spoke.

Nero stared at her flatly. “…What.”

Synnove startled, and turned her head to meet his gaze, puzzled and blinking. “Fedarloh Fulltouch Chalk,” she said again, slowly.

“I have no idea what that is.”

Synnove’s jaw dropped open. Halulu’s popcorn bowl fell to the carpeted floor with a muffled clatter. Both Highlander and tonberry openly gawked at him.

He glanced between them and heaved a deep, unamused sigh, rolling his eyes. “All right, all right,” he said in disgust, and just the tiniest bit of curiosity. “ _Enlighten me_ , you useless heathen savages.”

Synnove opened the box and removed a single piece of chalk, still unused, took three strides to stand in front of him, and shoved the chalk beneath his nose. “Smell it,” she said imperiously.

He looked askance at her, but knew better, and took a derisive sniff. He did _not_ sneeze, and at that realization, his eyebrows ticked upwards.

“Touch it,” Halulu said.

Nero touched the stick of chalk with a single finger, and Synnove used the opportunity to hand it over to him. His eyebrows raised further when she did so.

“Kiss it,” Synnove said.

“I beg your pardon—”

“ _Kiss it,_ ” both arcanists hissed, auras of palpable malevolence flaring to life around them. A knife suddenly glinted in Halulu’s hand.

Wide-eyed, and _definitely_ knowing better, he obeyed.

“That,” said Halulu, in her usual cheerful tone of voice, knife vanished to whatever metafold pocket it was normally stored within, as he drew away with a moue of distaste, “is the motherlode.”

“It is,” Synnove said dreamily, “the best chalk produced anywhere on this star. _Ever._ ”

“It’s rarely breaks.”

“It leaves almost no dust behind.”

“It writes _so_ smoothly, like with ink on paper.”

“It’s impossible to write a false theorem with it!” Synnove gushed, then paused. “…All right, that one’s bullshite. _But._ It is absolutely much more fun to write out the latest drivel produced by Radz-at-Han when it’s time to poke holes in all their research.”

Nero held up the chalk stick, examining it incredulously. “It’s swiving _chalk,_ ” he said, disbelieving.

Synnove pointed at one of her slate blackboards that wasn’t currently covered in theoretical arcanima equations. “Try it!”

The Garlean stared at her for a long moment before finally shaking his head. With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and strolled over to the chalkboard. He set chalk to slate, and began scrawling the equation for aetheromagnetic plane waves. And then the equations of motion. And then the equations of rotation, with increasing speed and enthusiasm. Each number and letter practically glowed, no smears or stray dust to distract from the brilliant white of the mineral against the dark board.

“What,” he said wonderingly, continuing to test write, “the _fuck._ ”

“It’s luscious!”

“It glides!”

“Where the _hell_ do I get this for myself?”

Synnove and Halulu grimaced, uncomfortable expressions twisted on their features. Nero turned to look at them over his shoulder when they didn’t immediately respond.

“Therein lies the problem,” Halulu said.

“It’s from Sharlayan,” Synnove said in a clipped tone.

“Oh for _fuck’s sake._ ”

Both arcanists hummed in sympathy as Nero banged his head against the blackboard. The Garlean muttered angrily about snobbish, self-righteous scholars for a few moments, to which Synnove and Halulu hummed again, this time in agreement. Then suddenly he turned on his heel and stalked back to Synnove, jabbing a finger in her face. “Who’s your dealer?” he said waspishly.

“That is privileged information,” she said primly, crossing her arms, chalk box still in hand.

He glared venomously at her, teeth audibly grinding, before suddenly grinning, vicious and pleased and _knowing_. “Shall I tell Rammbroes you said hello when I pay him a visit? The Sons _are_ currently the only organization operating outside the Sharlayan homeland that _isn’t_ on the Forum’s shite-list.”

Synnove scowled while Halulu hid a laugh behind a cough, but the Highlander didn’t contradict him.

“I’m keeping this,” Nero said, flourishing the stick of chalk in his own hand.

“Fine,” Synnove bit out.

“Does it come in other colors?”

The arcanist stared at him suspiciously, but Halulu chirped, “Yes, including a very nice, vibrant red. Synnove keeps her colored chalks in a locked safe.”

“ _Halulu!_ ”

“Oh, please, like it’s a secret, or like the other senior arcanists don’t do the same with their own hoards.”

Synnove sulked. Nero snickered, then dodged the slap she aimed at him and strode with a spring in his step for the door. “Thank you for the chalk!” he called over his shoulder. “And the entertainment!”

He at least had the courtesy to close the door behind himself.

Silence reigned in the office for a few heartbeats. Then:

“Absolutely nothing good can come of this.”

“Nope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Synnove's love of chalk is absolutely nothing new, but when I found out about [Hagoromo Fulltouch Chalk](https://www.cnn.com/2020/08/22/us/hagoromo-chalk-great-big-story-trnd/index.html), which American mathemeticians apparently went ga-ga for, my FC chat went nuts and a headcanon was born. :D
> 
> "Fedarloh," by the way, is my attempt at actually translating "Hagoromo" into the Roegadyn language!


	23. Decisive Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 22: Argy-bargy
> 
>  **SPOILERS** for _The Sorrow of Werlyt_ through the quest "Sleep Now in Sapphire" and sequel to the earlier fill, "[A Cruel Arcanist's Thesis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65600395#workskin)."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 22, 2020.

“You rebuilt and refurbished an _Allagan warmachina AND DIDN’T INVITE US!_ ” Synnove bellowed.

“The _nerve!_ ” Nero said, waving a wrench for emphasis.

“The _audacity!_ ”

“The _betrayal!_ ”

“Oh my gods, I will throw you both over a cliff,” Cid said, rubbing his temples.

The G-Warrior had been brought back to Revenant’s Toll for a retrofit that couldn’t be performed in Terncliff. Synnove, of course, had used the opportunity to call up Nero on the linkpearl (that is, ranted on the open line that she knew he eavesdropped on because he refused to actually _use_ any linkpearls in place of Garlean magitek comms, the absolute snob) to rat Cid out to him about the existence of the warmachina, dancing out of reach of Cid trying to take the ‘pearl cuff from her. Nero’s outraged squawk had near deafened them _both._ And within just a handful of bells, the Red Baron had dropped out of the sky into the Garlond Ironworks courtyard with an enraged engineer aboard.

Cid had not known peace the whole damned day.

“Look at this,” Synnove said, gesturing up at the G-Warrior with Ivar, who was dozing in her grasp like a loose sack of physical aether and pyromania. “Look at it! It can’t even channel primal aether anymore. That’s just _sad,_ Cid, very sad, how could you?”

“It drew its power directly from the Warring Triad in the flagship,” said Cid tiredly. “If you think I was keeping that functionality, much less the abilities of elder primals like the Triad—”

“You could have _adapted_ it,” Nero sneered. “Just _how_ many summoners and their egi have the Immortal Flames recruited by now?”

As Cid shouted incredulously, “How do you even _know_ that?” Synnove added, holding up Ivar and wearing the sweet, innocent, pleased smile that struck terror into the hearts of everyone who knew her, “Or, even easier, carbuncles with egi subprogramming!”

Cid gave her a flat look and said, “And as you’re the only arcanist with carbuncles installed with egi subprogramming that I know of…”

“What a lovely coincidence!”

“And, truly, Garlond,” said Nero, “I cannot _believe_ you passed on the opportunity to enact poetic justice and use the VIIth’s own tricks against them by means of deploying a primal-infused weapon against their forces.”

“No, no, that is a trap,” Cid growled, jabbing a finger into Nero’s chest. “Not when the basis of their work is partially _your_ research. I am not falling for your false flattery.”

Nero sniffed and smacked the other Garlean’s hand away. “Please, their synthetic auracite system is an abomination, even _you_ could do better with the original Ultima Weapon’s blueprints on hand.”

Cid’s face turned a fascinating shade of red as he gaped at Nero, hands flexing in the manner of someone who desperately wanted to strangle the person before them. Synnove muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, _Point to Nero._

“Have you discovered which lunatic legate is now in charge of the VIIth, by chance?” Nero said to Synnove while Cid fought the urge to commit homicide.

“Alakhai spoke to a former conscript in Terncliff who mentioned a ‘Legatus Valens,’” Synnove said thoughtfully. “And that’s a _given_ name if I’m not mistaken, not a family name. It’s been difficult for Alliance intelligence to get anything out of Garlemald recently, so they haven’t been able to discover anything else about him so far.”

“It _is_ a given name,” Nero murmured, frowning. “Certainly, it doesn’t narrow the field very much; I knew of at least four individuals with that name among the tribuni angusticlavii in the other legions around when we discovered the Ultima Weapon beneath Ala Mhigo, but that’s no guarantee any of them were tapped for legatus of the VIIth when it was reactivated.”

“Pass those names along to Riol, then, it’s more than we’ve got otherwise at the moment.”

Nero made a dismissive gesture at her, the one for him that typically meant, _yes, yes, of course._ He continued, “And that is a _shockingly_ informal address for a legatus on top of that, to refer to one by their personal name.”

“Especially after so long in the XIVth,” Cid muttered.

“Mmm, Baelsar was always a stickler for protocol, it was a bone he always had between his teeth.”

Cid, despite himself, snorted a laugh.

The temperature in the hangar noticeably dropped. Cid and Nero exchanged vaguely uneasy expressions, and then swung around to look at Synnove.

“The next person who makes a wolf pun in my presence about Gaius Baelsar,” said Synnove Grey _wolfe_ with forced cheer, “will have Ivar sicced on them.”

Nero paused before responding, taking in her too-large, dead-eyed smile with the gravitas of a man examining a creature capable of ripping out his throat with its teeth, and then glanced down to Ivar. The carbuncle was still dead asleep. “Duly noted,” he finally said, genuinely serious.

Cid looked at him, eyebrows raised.

Nero scoffed and said, “Garlond, I would like to remind you that of the two of us here, I have in fact already had Ivar—as well as _Tyr—_ sicced upon my person, and I am _not_ keen to repeat the experience. Do you know what the melting point of carbonweave is? Because that one,” he pointed to Ivar, “can _achieve it._ ”

Ivar suddenly jerked awake with a snort, looking around in Synnove’s grasp. _Whazzat, I heard m’name._

Synnove scratched behind his ears and said fondly, “Just threatening people with you, boyo.”

A chatter as he rubbed at his eye with his paw. _Did it work?_

“Yes it did!”

 _Yaaaaay._ He yawned, jaw cracking and all of his very pointy teeth on display, and fell back asleep.

“…Your carbuncles are terrifying instruments of wanton violence and destruction,” Nero said, staring at Ivar, “which speaks volumes about your actual levels of relative sanity and inherit bloodthirstiness.”

Synnove put her hand over her heart. “That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she said, genuinely touched.

“I hope the next explosion you set off burns away your eyebrows and at _least_ ten ilms of hair.”

“I hope the next time you get Thavnairian, the kitchen serves you the spice demon bowl and not the spice wuss one.”

“Now!” With the requisite exchange of insults complete, Nero turned on his heel to loom over Cid. “The aether mines could have had an increased output of at _least_ twenty percent if you had taken into account something as simple as _concussive force._ ”

“Which could have meant more power put towards the aether cannon!”

“Or the pyretic booster!”

Cid sighed and put his face in his hands as the other two scientists renewed their haranguing and petty nitpicking. Bloody godsdamned _nerds._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jai for helping me keep to the music-from-Eva theme for Werlyt-related prompts, and not even needing to pun it, because this was nearly titled "Fly Me to the (Lesser) Moon" which A) pun, ew, disgusting, B) doesn't even make sense in the context of the fic, and C) it's one of my least favorite Sinatra songs and the cover used for the NGE end credits made me dislike it _even more._
> 
> Also: spot the meme reference!


	24. Work-Life Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 23: Shuffle
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Smut ahead, NSFW!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 23, 2020.

The only sound in his parliamentary office since the sun set bells ago had been the rustle of parchment, the scratch of his quill, the occasional ungraceful sip of cold tea when he remembered it existed, and his own faint growls and muttering as he worked through the never-ending pile of governmental detritus. Thus, the sound of the door opening was impossible to miss. At this time of night, it could only be one person.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he said absently. “I need a moment longer…” Just one more missive to sign, and then he would go _home,_ he swore to himself.

It was impossible to miss the sound of the door not just closing, but _locking._

Aymeric finally looked up.

Synnove was leaning back against the door, hands behind her resting on the handle, her legs crossed at the ankle. But rather then upset, or disappointed, or scolding, or any myriad negative expressions she would wear when his workaholism got the best of him, tonight…

Tonight, she looked _hungry._

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry. Without a word, he set down his quill and leaned back in his chair.

She pushed off the door and prowled forward slowly, a smirk on her lips. As she walked, hips swinging hypnotically, she peeled her gloves off, letting them fall to the floor without a care. Then she undid the buttons of her jacket, revealing as she worked from her collarbone to her hips no shirt or shift or stays beneath, but instead her gorgeous golden-bronze skin. Once the last button was undone and the heavy leather hung open, the faintest shrug of her shoulders had it sliding down her arms and onto the floor.

Save for the rings on her fingers, the necklace glinting at her throat, and the arcanima tattoos writhing up her arms from the back of her hands to the middle of her biceps, from the waist up she was perfectly, gloriously bare.

By the time she sashayed around his desk and came to stand between his spread knees, Aymeric was halfway to full hardness.

Synnove braced her hands on the arms of his chair and, this close, he could barely see any of the green of her irises, consumed as they were with pupil. Lust jolted through him, atavistic satisfaction rising in his chest at the knowledge his lady was already so aroused. She leaned forward, sure as any coeurl, and caught his lips with her own in a bruising kiss, forcing his head back until it knocked against the wood. He groaned, deep in his chest, and brought his own hands up to rest on her hips, massaging the bones there with his thumbs, before rubbing up and down her flanks in long, luxurious strokes, savoring the heat and silk of her and brushing against the undersides of her breasts with every pass.

His lady shuddered in his grasp and moaned softly, pulling back just enough to say against his lips, “You’re distracting me.”

“Heavens forfend,” he murmured, stilling his hands on her waist and absently petting her skin. “What would my lady have of me?”

She tilted her head to drop butterfly kisses along his jaw, working back towards his ear, but changed course when she reached the edge of his mandible. She nosed at the hinge and he obediently tilted his head back, a shuddering sigh escaping him as she nipped at his neck. Her pace was leisurely and she remained silent, focused on her task, until she reached the thundering center of his throat where his pulse beat against his skin. She set her teeth against the artery, ever so gentle, and the faint pressure against that most vulnerable of spots had his cock twitching in his breeches and another low groan emanating from his throat.

Synnove drew away with a soft, smug laugh and said, “My handsome knight works too hard. I mean to remind him of some of the pleasures that await him when the day’s duties are set aside.”

And then, as smooth as fine silk, she slid to her knees before him.

If Aymeric hadn’t been fully hard by then, he certainly was _now._

She grinned up at him, sultry and mischievous, as she worked open the laces of his breeches. A strangled noise fell from his throat when she leaned forward and breathed hot, damp air over his groin, and she laughed at him again. He gently brushed her hair back from her face and behind her ears, and she tilted her head just enough that she could keep eye contact with him, and kissed his left wrist. He could feel the faintest brush of tongue against his skin, and he moaned once more, helpless in her grasp.

When she freed his length from his breeches, he was already leaking profusely, flushed and aching. How could he not, with such a beautiful woman willingly kneeling between his legs and granting him the full weight of her attention? Aymeric shifted restlessly and grit his teeth against the urge to buck his hips like a green squire; just the feel of her hand and the anticipation of her mouth setting his blood alight.

Synnove slowly dragged her hand up his cock and then down, peeling back the foreskin as she did, and kissed the very tip, her tongue flicking out to catch the fluid pooling there, drawing a gasp from him. She smirked, pleased, and kissed her way down his length, moving her hand out of the way to gently lave her tongue along the base of himself; at the same time, she coaxed his hips up just enough to slide his breeches further down his legs, allowing her to lavish nips and licks and kisses along his inner thighs while she took his cock in hand again to lazily stroke him. He panted as he watched her work, the angle at which she was bent allowing him a glimpse of the tattoo that graced her back; a flash of the green eyes of the wolf’s head at the center, the shadow of her hair highlighting the Borel crest on Ishgard blue on her nape. His hips stuttered when his self-control faltered, and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open, the urge to let his head fall back and simply ride out the sensations his lady drew forth almost overwhelming.

She moved back up his cock, mouthing at the underside and licking at his frenulum for long moments while his fingers flexed in her hair. A wicked grin crossed her features and she reached up to unwrap the braid from around the tail holding up her hair, so that the length of mahogany and green strands spilled down her back, covering her tattoo. He groaned anew at the sight and he combed his hands through it, catching the single long braid between his fingers and gently dragging his blunt nails across her scalp.

That action drew a moan from her, her eyes falling shut for a brief moment while a shiver wracked her body, but she opened them with renewed determination. Then she took the head of him into her mouth, cheeks hollowing as she _suckled_ , and he forgot everything except pleasure.

Aymeric made sure to watch, as he always did. It left him awed and breathless in more ways than the obvious to have Synnove favor him such; she was a peerless mage, a slayer of primals, a liberator of nations, peacebringer and warbreaker, a Warrior of Light. That she had chosen _him_ of all people as her lover never failed to make his heart ache with adoration. That she so freely gifted him such a selfish indulgence stoked the flames of his desire even further than the act itself.

 _But what a sight she made,_ that savage, possessive part of him growled, exulting in knowing that _he_ was the only one for whom she would kneel, that _he_ was the one to whom she had entrusted her heart.

Her magnificence seemed heightened in this moment, Aymeric suddenly hyperaware of every one of her movements, every minute change in expression. The way she shifted on her knees, thighs rubbing against one another to tease herself even as her focus stayed upon him. The way her lips, spit-slick and hungry, stretched around his cock and glided up and down its length, fast or agonizingly slow as she pleased. The way her eyes met his, emerald darkened to deepwood with lust and glittering with gleeful pride. The way she played him like a fine instrument, backing off to work him with just her hands and kiss and nip his quivering thighs, her breath fanning over the sensitive parts of himself as she did, before giving him the heat and wet of her mouth once more.

At some point, he gave up trying to keep his hips wholly still, rocking back and forth into her with slow rolls of his hips, panting and groaning. She granted him the privilege, head bobbing in time with his thrusts, tongue pressing up along the underside of his cock, hands gently cupping his base, cheeks hollowing again to give him that delicious, overwhelming suction. His skin felt too tight, too hot, the coils of desire becoming too much to bear.

“I’m—ah!—I’m close, love,” he gasped, trying desperately not to tug too hard at her hair, toeing the line too close to what she found personally pleasurable and what was too much.

Synnove glanced up at him, eyes narrowed in consideration. Then, working the base of his shaft in corkscrew motions with one hand and reaching up to carefully massage his perineum with the other, she took a deep breath through her nose, and sank as far down on him as she comfortably could. And, with a devious wink, _hummed._

He shouted, guttural and triumphant, and distantly felt himself twitch and pulse as he spilled in her mouth, ecstasy searing through him and blanking his mind to everything except fiery bliss and Synnove’s hands and Synnove’s mouth and Synnove’s _everything._

Aymeric came back to himself slowly, struggling to catch his breath. A weight on his knee caught his attention, and he glanced down to see Synnove with her chin propped on it, blatantly smug as she grinned up at him. She licked her lips, and he groaned as his spent cock twitched at the sight.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” she purred, slightly hoarse.

“Very much so,” he said, only slightly winded.

And then, before Synnove could either preen or protest, he cleared his paperwork from his desk with an unceremonious shove, papers and ledgers thumping to the floor, and swept her into his arms to deposit her atop the ironwood. She yelped in surprise, hands scrabbling on the wood for purchase, and pushed herself upright to stare at him, beautiful green eyes wide, as he prostrated himself before her and pulled off her boots.

“But I’m going to enjoy this more,” he said with a leer, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her breeches.

There was, after all, no sensation or song better than hearing his lovely Synnove shamelessly revel in her own pleasure. And, as always, she did not disappoint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing male POV smut feels _weird,_ but hey, for a first attempt, I think it worked out fine!
> 
> Third and last of the smut fills, so everything else going forward can be read in public just fine. ;)


	25. Oak and Granite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 24: Beam
> 
>  **SPOILERS** for Ehll Tou's Custom Delivery story line!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 24, 2020.

**_[May I open my eyes yet?]_ **

A soft laugh. “Not yet, Ehll Tou. Be patient just a little while longer.”

The dragon sighed heavily, but continued to walk alongside Synnove without further fuss, as tempting as it was to hop and bounce and flap about like an overexcited hatchling on their first excursion outside the nest. Her scales fairly itched with anticipation, and she clutched at her hammer with both hands, flexing her fingers over the handle as the only tell about the state of her nerves.

Synnove kept a hand on her shoulder as they walked through the New Nest, guiding her along since Ehll Tou could not rely on her sight herself. The woman had arrived at her favorite spot at Saint Roelle’s Dais with a skip in her step and a grin on her face and had asked Ehll Tou to accompany her, as she had something to show her. Curiosity piqued, and Hautdilong attending to the business of his first draft (so tedious, drafting, but no song was ever perfect upon first composition, as the blood of Ratatoskr well knew!), Ehll Tou had happily followed her friend and teacher.

Certainly they could have flown—carrying Synnove or Hautdilong or Arvide was no hardship—but there was an odd pleasure to traversing the Firmament like one of her non-winged brethren; it had let her see the denizens of Ishgard come and go or do their yardwork or haggle at the new market, and she could wave hello to the new friends she was constantly making. And, if she was with Arvide or Hautdilong or Synnove, it was much easier to chat without the wind blowing away their words! But today, she and Synnove had walked in companionable silence until they had neared the Mendicant’s Court, at which point Synnove had requested Ehll Tou close her eyes. “It’s a surprise,” the Highlander had said, her smile widening. “And us two-legged folk enjoy preserving the mystery that accompanies one. I promise that nothing untoward will happen and I’ll do my very best to lead you safe and sound.”

Ehll Tou had cocked her head and stared at her speculatively. **_[…is Rereha involved at all?]_ **she had finally asked.

Synnove had thrown back her head and laughed. “No, no, absolutely no Rereha! I haven’t told her _anything._ ”

The bard was a gifted song-writer, and it was a pleasure to discuss rhythm and meter with her, or argue the merits of recitation versus choral presentations, whenever Rereha came to the Firmament to perform for its new residents. But that woman got into more trouble than _Orn Khai,_ and her mischief had a tendency to bowl over anyone in her wake.

 ** _[All right, Synnove. But don’t let me trip on any loose cobblestones, as funny as it would be to see a daughter of the sky lose her balance!]_** Ehll Tou had said as she had closed her eyes.

Another of Synnove’s deep belly laughs had rung out, and then the hyur had placed her hand on her shoulder. “No tripping, I swear.”

They were walking _down,_ now, and Ehll Tou vibrated with excited curiosity, stepping carefully as Synnove murmured a warning about unsure footing. She thought she had an idea of where they could be going, but not why: there was a section of the Firmament near the Court where old, rundown warehouses were located. Once, they had served as storage locations for surplus foodstuffs or mercantile goods, but they had long since been emptied and the structures gone to rot, and there had been no plans she was aware of to refurbish them, especially with the Firmament being rebuilt primarily as a residential neighborhood for Ishgard’s homeless and downtrodden.

Still, Ehll Tou held her tongue. Neither Arvide nor Synnove had ever steered her astray, and certainly neither of them would not start now!

Eventually, they came to a halt. Ehll Tou couldn’t see Synnove, but she could _smell_ her own excitement and delight.

**_[ Now may I look?]_ **

“Go ahead, Ehll Tou.”

The dragon sighed in relief and blinked her eyes open.

Before them stood one of the buildings of the warehouse district, but to her surprise, it was far from dilapidated or rotting. Instead, the wooden and stone structure, perhaps two or three stories tall, fairly glowed in the noon sunshine; the granite of the building’s base had been smoothed to a fine sheen and cut so neatly she could barely see seams, and the oak stained to highlight the grain. The roof was made of heavy logs, and the windows she could see had the shutters open to reveal sturdy, thick, but shockingly clear glass, and that alone had her gaping. Glasswork, even the creation of plain panes, was a laborious process, and such clarity she had only ever seen in small pieces.

Immediately before them was the large pair of doors that was the main entrance to the warehouse, big enough that her sire, Gullinbursti, or Vidofnir, could comfortably walk inside should both be opened. However, the doors were currently shut, and the handles chained together with a heavy padlock.

 ** _[What is this place, Synnove?]_** Ehll Tou said, swinging her head around to look at her friend—and gaped once more in surprise.

Synnove stood with one arm behind her back and the other held before her, hand open with the palm upward. And in her palm, was a large brass key.

“This,” Synnove said, smiling wide and bright, “is your new workshop.”

Ehll Tou looked down at the key in Synnove’s hand, her mind going as blank as a moogle’s expression at the prospect of real work. Then, she looked over to the warehouse, which—which was _her_ warehouse. Finally, she looked back to Synnove to meet the woman’s brilliant green eyes.

 _Her_ warehouse. _Her_ workshop. _Hers! Hers hers hers!!_

A gravelly, purring chuff rose in her throat, and Ehll Tou hurriedly stashed her beloved hammer in her satchel so that she could safely dart forward and wrap Synnove up in a hug. **_[Oh! Oh thank you thank you thank you!!!]_**

She barreled into Synnove so suddenly that the breath left the woman’s chest in a rushing wheeze as they collided, but the Highlander was surprised for only a moment even as she stumbled back a step, and she immediately hugged Ehll Tou back, her grip firm, but not uncomfortably so. Synnove made that suspicious sniffling sound that meant she was going to find her mate later and do that strange mortal crying thing that could apparently mean either happiness _or_ sadness—though with Synnove, as Ser Aymeric had once explained to her, it was typically the former.

They drew apart, Synnove sniffing hard and swiping at her eyes, before holding the key out again, a large grin on her face. Ehll Tou delicately picked up the key with the claws of her right hand and spun on her foot to bounce towards the warehouse doors, flapping her wings just once to increase her momentum.

The padlock clicked open easily, and the chains slithered from the handles. She sounded like a hatchling with how loudly she was happily whining as she pushed inside the warehouse, which morphed into an excited roar as she beheld the interior.

There was so much _room!_ Oh, it was empty, yes, but that was even better: it meant she could lay out all her work stations for carpentry and gemcutting and alchemy and tanning and other rooms however she wanted! Ohhh, a forge in the back that could be the heart of a heating system to keep the whole building warm, and then she could have a lovely little rookery right next to it to doze in on her visits to Ishgard. And an office for Hautdilong! Guest rooms, for Spoken and dragon alike! A larder! _A kitchen!_

And so much wonderful, natural light! Skylights were cut into the roof along regular intervals the whole length of the building, the panes as thick and clear as the windows in the walls. She would need to come up with some sort of light system for evening and night, though; perhaps hung from the rafters? She crouched down and leapt into the air, and with three powerful flaps of her wings, she landed on one of the huge rafters in question, testing its strength by hopping up and down on the beam.

It didn’t creak at all.

Oh, yes, that would do _nicely._ She would simply need to engineer something that would not be a fire hazard; perhaps crystal, or some sort of alchemical mixture. Arvide would likely have some fine ideas as a starting point!

At a familiar, attention-grabbing whistle, Ehll Tou looked down and met Synnove’s gaze, the woman standing in the midst of the warehouse among all the sunshine with her hands on her hips and a smile on her face.

“I take it you like it?” her friend called out.

Ehll Tou roared again, wings flaring. **_[I LOVE IT! Thank you!!]_**

“You are _most_ welcome, skysinger. May you craft all the wonders your heart and mind desire here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned recently how much I love Ehll Tou? Honestly, she's my favorite Shadowbringers character at this point.


	26. Worst Case Scenario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 25: Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 25, 2020.

Lucia did not bother to knock before entering the Seat of the Lord Commander. Ser Aymeric did not have any meetings scheduled for the day, anyway, being more concerned with the logistical nightmare that would be transporting dragonkillers and bertha cannons from Coerthas to the Gyr Abanian border as part of the Ishgardian contribution to—hopefully—Ala Mhigo’s eventual liberation. And he would _not_ be pleased if the news that had just arrived was delayed in being relayed to him.

…Not that he would be pleased with this news _anyway._

Handeloup, Halone bless him, was already clearing the halls of the junior knights and squires.

Ser Aymeric looked up from one of the reports in front of him, brow furrowed, as she strode towards him. “Lucia,” he said in surprise, “what news?”

She came to a halt in front of his desk, automatically falling into the comfort of standing at ease. The temptation to simply hand over the written report was extraordinary; she _did not_ want to speak these words. But that would be cowardice and, more importantly, she was a better friend than that.

Better that she speak these words than a stranger, or a nameless subordinate.

“Ser,” she said, grim and unable to entirely hide her worry, “we’ve received word of an Imperial ambush on the Ala Mhigan Resistance cell at Rhalgr’s Reach, which occurred roughly two bells ago.”

It was a curious sensation to have the full weight of Aymeric de Borel’s attention upon oneself. The pale blue of his eyes seemed to sharpen to ice, lending him the heavy, almost eerie air that was similar to those that blanketed the oldest statues of Halonic saints. She had once heard a minor noble—some lordling of a cadet branch of a cadet branch of a vassal house—compare it to the Archbishop, but _that_ was inaccurate. Lucia was fortunate to have met the Viscountess Gwenaëlle de Borel years ago, and she knew with surety that heavy, assessing gaze had been learned, consciously or not, from her. With Ser Aymeric, as it had been with his mother, the weight of it was never judgmental; most of the time, it felt anticipatory, even encouraging.

Today, however, she couldn’t tell _what_ that weight was, knew that her presence and her tone had affected it, and the inability to tell what the man before her was thinking set her nerves on edge.

Lucia drew on years of Frumentarium training to keep her voice level as she said, “General Aldynn and a deployment from the Immortal Flames have already arrived at the Reach from Castrum Oriens to reinforce the defenses, supplemented by conjurers from the Order of the Twin Adder under the direct command of Kan-E-Senna.”

The stillness that settled on the Lord Commander at that detail made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Now he truly _did_ resemble a Halonic saint’s statue.

“The Imperial forces were apparently being led by Viceroy Zenos yae Galvus himself,” she continued, “though he and his forces quit the field despite being assured of victory.”

“Being assured of—” Aymeric cut himself off before he could finish, incredulity lacing those few words regardless. “What are the casualties?”

“As yet unknown, but high,” she said. Despite her best efforts, she could not stop the slight waver to her voice as she finished: “As of the report delivered ten minutes ago, however, members of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn were still in surgery, including Y’shtola Rhul, Rereha Reha, and…and Synnove Greywolfe.”

Aymeric’s face went slack with shock, and somehow that was worse than the expressionless politician’s mask. He stared at her for long, terrible heartbeats, dread rising in his eyes, and she would later swear she saw his hands, flat upon his desk, trembling. And then he was out of his chair, rounding his desk, voice frantic as he said, “If there’s anything scheduled, cancel it, cancel it _now,_ I’m leaving you in charge—”

Lucia was prepared for this, stepping forward and catching him by the arm before he could escape, and she had to dig in her heels to keep from being pulled off her feet, such was the force of momentum he had already generated in his fear. Aymeric swung around to stare at her, wild-eyed, halfway to feral, like an aevis pinned by a dragonkiller’s harpoon and more than ready to take out as many knights in its death throes as it could.

“Ser, I cannot allow you to leave,” Lucia said, firming her tone despite her own fears about her friends. She spoke slowly and clearly, because right now Aymeric was neither the cool under pressure Lord Commander of the Temple Knights nor the silver-tongued Lord Speaker of the House of Lords of the Ishgardian Parliament; he was but a man, one of her dearest friends in all the world, about to lose his mind to terror born of anguish. “General Aldynn is at the Reach. _The Elder Seedseer is at the Reach._ If you went, that would put three Eorzean Alliance leaders, _two of them heads of state,_ in one location _in enemy territory._ There is zero chance the Imperials do not have spies on the location now and there is _no telling_ that Galvus may suddenly decide to finish the job he began when he sacked the Reach.

“ _You cannot go._ ”

There was a familiar, though rarely seen, emotion that bled into Aymeric’s eyes as she spoke. She hadn’t even seen it when the truth of the Dragonsong War had become known to them. It only came out when he was absolutely powerless to act, when nothing he could do could help those he loved and his loved ones were _hurt_.

It was _rage._

Later, she wouldn’t remember leaving the office. She would vaguely recall the empty halls and stairwell, and Handeloup joining her to flank Aymeric on his other side, as she half-dragged, half-guided the shaking man to someplace where he could safely let his rage boil over. She would recall opening the doors to one of the training salles—blessedly empty of knights and squires and pages, but full of striking dummies and racks and racks of weapons—and essentially shoving the Lord Commander inside before slamming the doors shut behind him, locking them, and settling into a guard position in front of them.

First and Second Commander exchanged worried, weary looks as the sound of splintering wood began to echo from the salle.

“I’ll send a runner as soon as we receive better news,” Handeloup said, reaching up to tiredly rub his race. “And I’ll tell the kitchens to prep something simple for him for dinner. And tea. Lots of tea.”

“Pray, too, that the healers will agree to move the Warriors of Light to Castrum Oriens within the next few days,” Lucia sighed, letting the weight of her own worry hang from her shoulders for a moment. “I’m not sure how long we can use logic against him before instinct wins out and he goes haring off to Gyr Abania. We don’t have Estinien to help us sit on him, this time.”

A roaring crash rang out, shaking the doors.

Handeloup grimaced and, with a half-hearted salute, returned to his duties. Lucia sighed again, and straightened her stance.

A bell later, the sounds of destruction from inside the salle had tapered away, and Lucia was considering checking on her friend when one of the squires ran up, a folded parchment in her hand. She was holding out her hand before the lass was even halfway down the hall, and the squire handed it over with a wheeze, bending over to brace herself on her knees and catch her breath as Lucia unfolded the note.

Her own breath left her in a heavy exhale, relief washing through her like a soothing wave. “Thank you,” she said to the squire. “Please tell Ser Handeloup to have the tea service sent up to the Lord Commander’s private quarters.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the squire said, pushing herself upright and saluting. Then she was off down at the hall again, moving quickly but not sprinting at full tilt as she was just moments ago.

Lucia unlocked the salle and gingerly pushed the right door open. She peered in cautiously; the room looked worse for wear, every training dummy little more than kindling, the archery targets (and parts of the wall) bristling with arrows, more than one empty weapons rack laying on the floor, their contents strewn about haphazardly.

In the center of the room, Aymeric sat cross-legged, head in his hands, Naegling next to him on the floor on his left and his favorite monstrous yew longbow, the string snapped, on his right. He had taken off the heavy pauldrons and surcoat of the Lord Commander’s attire, leaving him in his gambeson, and his breathing was even. The worst, it seemed, had passed. For now.

Lucia walked up to him slowly, deliberately treading heavily, and crouched next to him. “Update from the Flames,” she said quietly, though in the utter silence of the salle, her voice seemed to echo. “Y’shtola and Rereha are still in surgery but expected to make it, though not without serious recovery. Synnove is out of surgery, however. Healer’s prediction is she’ll make a full recovery, but she suffered both heavy blood loss and aethershock and regaining her strength will take time.”

Aymeric sighed, low and almost groaning. “Thank you, Lucia,” he said. His voice was hoarse, though she hadn’t heard any sound at him from all as he spent his rage and frustration on the contents of the salle. “And I apologize for…this.” The last word was said with a gesture encompassing both himself and the room.

She wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and her friend slumped against her with another sigh. “No apologies are necessary,” she said, hugging him, “though I can’t speak for the quartermaster.”

Despite himself, Aymeric managed a half-hearted laugh.

* * *

Four days later, Lucia accompanied Aymeric to Castrum Oriens. They both wore nondescript clothing, in the style of the many adventurers offering their services to the Alliance and now spreading out into Gyr Abania to the villages and Resistance cells, and she walked at his side, rather behind and to his left as was the usual for the First Commander. They were met by one of the Temple Knights keeping a lookout for them, and thence were quickly ushered to the infirmary where the injured Scions had been moved to from Rhalgr’s Reach the day before.

Lucia checked in on Dancing Heron and Alakhai first. Both were conscious, and Heron even allowed to walk around, though both had rib injuries that necessitated she be exceedingly careful with her hugs for them (and the ones she delivered from Hilda). Poor Alakhai looked especially miserable with most of her left side covered in plaster casts, but she had a comfortable blanket in the form of Tyr, purring so aggressively that both Alakhai and the cot vibrated.

Rereha was asleep when Lucia poked her head into her room. The lalafell’s dark brown skin had a pallid cast and her pink hair was dull and limp, but despite the thrashing she had received, she would keep her bow arm. Galette was curled around Rereha’s head, purring softer but no less aggressively than her brother, and chirped a quiet hello at seeing her. Lucia wiggled her fingers in a wave, and carefully closed the door behind her.

Finally, Lucia came to Synnove’s room. Unsurprisingly, Aymeric had gone there straightaway, and when she arrived, the man was sitting as close as possible to Synnove’s bedside, holding her hand so that he could press his lips against her knuckles as Synnove slept, his other hand gently stroking her hair. Ivar was curled up on Synnove’s feet, but he raised his head as Lucia came into the room and, like his sister, chirped hello.

Lucia gave his ears a scratch before going to stand beside Aymeric, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. He sighed deeply and murmured, “We put so much on them and expect even more, and then to see them laid low…”

“They well knew the risks of the adventurers’ path,” she said softly, “and it speaks of their courage and conviction that they have never faltered, even when the path forward is difficult. They will get through this, with the help of each other, and us, and all the rest of their friends.”

Aymeric sighed again, nodding, and brought Synnove’s hand down to hold over his heart, lacing his fingers through hers. She shifted slightly in her sleep, turning her face towards him, and with the hand he had used to pet her hair, he cupped her cheek, thumb brushing over it softly. “Still,” he said, “I look forward to the day when they can simply…rest, and be.”

Lucia could find no words that would fit, and so merely hummed her agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically a sequel to last year's "[Fatigue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838770/chapters/50154023#workskin)" (and some oneshots from Coffee Break), plus includes some headcanons on how I figured the aftermath of the Battle of Rhalgr's Reach played out. For instance, Kan-E-Senna isn't present in canon, but per my version of events where multiple Scions _and_ the Warriors of Light were involved and badly injured in the battle, Raubahn called in the heavy guns among the conjurers, and Kan-E herself arrived on scene.
> 
> But, yeah. This is one of those things where the idea has lived in my head a while. It sucks when your girlfriend is one of the world's heroes.


	27. Itadakimasu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 26: When Pigs Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 26, 2020.

“Oh my _gods_ where is she.”

Alakhai held up the fore, middle fingers, and thumb of her right hand, holding them straight, and then snapped those three digits closed in a locking motion. Then she immediately followed it up with a derisive flick of her two fingers.

Rereha raised both of her hands and flicked back twice with a sneer.

“ _Ladies,_ ” Heron said without looking up from her book.

Alakhai rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, and Rereha sighed dramatically, bracing herself on her palms and leaning back on the bench, kicking her legs. At least it was a warm, sunny day, making the people-watching opportunities _excellent._

“Sorry I’m late!”

All three women looked up to see Synnove jogging towards them from the direction of the aetheryte plaza, wearing the halter top, rough canvas work pants, and heavy boots she would throw on before one of her gathering expeditions for crystals or ore or gems. Her sledgehammer and pickaxe were slung over her shoulder, and Tyr trotted next to her, converted saddlebags slung over his back stuffed full of material.

Alakhai shuffled over on the bench and Synnove slid in next to her, setting her tools down on the ground and then leaning over to help Tyr out of the saddlebags and shoving them with a chime of crystals under the table. Tyr hopped onto the stool, carefully settling his tails around himself so they wouldn’t be stepped on by a waitress or other patron, and boofed happily when Heron reached over to scratch his neck.

Rereha pushed herself upright, hands raised in the air. “All right, we can _eat!_ ” she sang out, doing a happy dance in her seat.

One of the waitresses, Tatsu, came over and she smiled as she bowed to them. “The usual, ladies?” she said.

“Yes, please!” they said in chorus.

Tatsu turned to Tyr. “And for you?”

The carbuncle made a deep burbling noise as he thought, ears flicking back and forth, before he finally _mrow_ ed. _The katsudon, please! And some miso soup on the side?_

“Of course,” the waitress said with another bow. As she rose, she made her way towards the ramen stall, calling out in rapid-fire Hingan to her cousins and aunts manning the outdoor stoves.

The group of friends settled in to wait for their food to arrive with a round of gossip. Synnove had spent the morning out in the hills of Onokoro, collecting elemental crystals for a test back at the Guild, plus searching for spinels for another experiment. “Not carbuncle summoning,” she said with a wave of her hand, “but testing for suitably for industrial use of some sort. Any of the nicer specimens, of course, we’ll cut ourselves and sell to go into the Guild coffers.”

“Should I tell Mama to call dibs?”

“Shushuha got dibs on the last batch of emeralds that didn’t pass muster for artificial infusion!”

Alakhai would be teleporting to the Doman Enclave later for a promised sparring match with Yugiri. “Need to brush up on some of the traditional shinobi bladework versus the rogues’ style,” she murmured, sipping at her barley tea. Heron, meanwhile, had finished a short bodyguard contract for a Hannish merchant the previous night and was indulging in some sightseeing and shopping in Kugane before heading home. And Rereha was attending a complete, full day performance of a kabuki play entitled _Kanadehon Chushingura_ (Rereha sounded it out carefully in the measured way of forcing the Echo _not_ to translate it) at the Mujikoza.

“Of course, there’s a two-bell intermission so everyone can get lunch,” Rere chirped. “Not even the locals have the stamina to get through the _full_ performance without a break. As I understand it, normally they just perform the most popular or famous scenes.”

“Hence your impatience for Synnove to arrive,” Heron drawled.

“Listen, I need at least three bowls of the good stuff to get me through the rest of this show, they don’t let you snack during the performance.”

At that moment, Tatsu returned with one of her sisters in tow, both of them carrying large trays. They set them on the edge of the table as the group cheered, and then began passing out the steaming bowls of ramen.

“Large tonkotsu with extra noodles, pork belly, egg, bamboo shoots, and seaweed,” the waitress said cheerfully as she set that one in front of Rereha.

“Aw, _yeeeeaaaaaah._ ”

“Large tonkotsu with extra noodles, pork belly, egg, steamed fish cake, and bean sprouts.”

Alakhai grinned, the limbal rings around her irises glinting.

“Large tonkotsu with extra noodles, pork belly, egg, seaweed, corn, and butter.”

“I know I’m a heathen foreigner and I thank you and grandmother for indulging me,” Synnove gushed, rubbing her hands together as her bowl was placed in front of her.

Tatsu laughed. “You are not the first foreigner to ask for unusual toppings, and Grandmother enjoys expanding her palate anyway! And for Heron, large tonkotsu with extra noodles, pork belly, chicken, extra egg, bean sprouts, and bamboo shoots.”

Heron sighed happily and took a deep, appreciative sniff of her bowl.

“And last but certainly not least, for Master Tyr, the katsudon, miso soup—and four soft-boiled eggs, halved. Grandmother’s treat.”

Tyr boofed in delight, his feet tappity-tapping happily on his stool. _Oh, thank you, Tatsu! And please tell your grandmother thank you, too!_

Each of the dishes had a generous sprinkling of green onion on top—extra for both Heron and Tyr—and Tatsu and her sister passed out chopsticks, soup spoons, napkins, and jars of condiments: hot sauce, plum sauce, tonkatsu sauce, and minced garlic. The waitresses bowed. “Please enjoy!” they chorused, and went to help another customer.

Tyr had been given a wide, shallow bowl for his katsudon to make it easier for him to have a mouthful of all three of the rice, fried cutlet, and eggs at once, and he chewed with a table rattling purr. Synnove poured a serving of the tonkatsu sauce on half his katsudon, and Tyr burbled his thanks, alternating bites of non-sauce with sauce covered lunch, sips of miso, and halves of egg.

The ramen bowls were, quite frankly, huge, easily the size of a grown male hyur’s head. They had been first filled with dense, chewy noodles, handmade daily by Tatsu’s family, and uncooked until an order was placed; no matter if the Warriors of Light decided to try a different type of ramen on one of their visits, the noodles were always the same perfect springiness. After the double portion of noodles had been lovingly placed within, the broth was ladled on top until the noodles were completely submerged and only an ilm or two of bare ceramic separated the broth from the rim of the bowl. All of the ramen options served here were delicious, but for them, the tonkotsu was the best: rich and thick from pork bones simmering for _days_ with a host of other ingredients until the liquid was silky and cloudy. And then finally, the toppings were neatly placed atop in tidy sections in an artful display of bright color.

All four women took a moment to admire their lunch before them—and then picked up their chopsticks.

The two-leggers dug in with equal gusto as the carbuncle; Rereha added enough hot sauce to her ramen that the broth turned a violent red—“I can enjoy bowls two and three plain, I gotta blow my brains out first!”—and almost immediately started sweating with the first bite of noodle and pork belly she shoved into her mouth. Alakhai went heavy on the minced garlic, and loaded up her spoon with broth and egg and sprouts, slurping it up with a pleased hum. Heron enjoyed her ramen without anything for her initial few bites, savoring noodles and broth and toppings all, before adding a dash of the plum sauce and a bit of minced garlic. Synnove went without any of the condiments for this serving, instead letting her pat of butter melt and muddle into the broth and expertly using her chopsticks to pop her egg into her mouth, following it with a slurp of broth.

They ate in silence, focused on the good food, working at a fast, methodical pace until, as one, they all lifted up their bowls and slurped the remaining broth until the vessels were empty. They set their bowls down again, content sighs escaping them, and at that point, Tatsu arrived with fresh servings and took away the used dishes. For round two, their pace was much more leisurely, and they began to chat once more.

“Do you think if we give her one of those fancy spinels, Grandma Tsuru will finally share the secret of her magical broth?” Rereha said around a mouthful of perfect noodles.

Her friends all snorted.

“That woman is unbribable,” Alakhai said.

“And you are in the unfortunate situation of not being a blood relative,” said Synnove, drizzling more tonkatsu sauce onto Tyr’s fresh serving of katsudon.

“Also, not sharing it means we keep giving her our business and gil,” Heron said with a snicker.

Rereha huffed and turned around, shouting as she always did at least once a visit towards where the old woman who made the best ramen in Kugane sat chopping green onions, “Hey, Grandma Tsuru! When will you give me your tonkotsu recipe?”

“When you can go one day without a smartass comment!” Grandma Tsuru hollered back.

“Oh, gods _damnit._ ”

Synnove, Heron, and Alakhai all began cackling as Rereha sulkily slurped more noodles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt where I went, "I have no idea," and just...started writing. And thus: food porn. (I was really missing my favorite ramen place when I wrote this.)


	28. Mothers and Daughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 26: Free Write | Calculations
> 
>  **SPOILERS** for Patch 5.1: Vows of Virtue, Deeds of Cruelty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 26, 2020.

While the Grand Dame’s Parlor was the Canopy’s premier location for food and drink, Eulmore’s upper levels still boasted numerous smaller cafés and restaurants to appease the rapacious appetites of the elite. With the return of night, however, and the radical shift in the Eulmorans’ attitudes about the exclusivity of their city, many of those businesses had begun welcoming former bonded servants, the residents of the Derelicts and Gatetown and Kholusia, and visitors from the Crystarium on the new airship circuit, altering their menus and décor to better suit the new clientele.

One of those locations was a cozy lounge overlooking Gatetown and the southern half of Kholusia, that served an excellent espresso con panna and almond biscotti. Both Alphinaud and Synnove had taken to ensconcing themselves in one of the booths along the large bay windows with their grimoires and carbuncles when they were in Eulmore, working in companionable silence. Despite their notoriety, the other patrons generally let them be—though the arcanist and the academician had both raised their eyebrows and exchanged looks when they had discovered the lounge had renamed itself to _The Carbuncle_ , complete with signage featuring what looked suspiciously like moonstone and emerald carbuncles.

(Galette, of course, had been smugly pleased.)

Today, however, Synnove was by herself and had shamelessly commandeered one of the circular booths, sitting cross-legged on the padded bench with a couple of grimoires spread out before her on the table. Amandina and Roksana were napping in a bundle of ears and tails in the space between her legs, the occasional squeaky snore escaping Roksana as she drooled on her sister’s ear. Synnove alternated gently rubbing each twin’s head with a finger, right atop the bold patch of red every carbuncle shared, as she worked on a programming issue, hunched over her books.

She nearly jumped in surprise at someone clearing their throat, and she bolted upright, blinking rapidly and her spine only cracking a little bit at the sudden movement.

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry, Synnove, I didn’t mean to frighten you!” Dulia-Chai said, a hand over her heart and ears pinned flat. She had a folio and three thick ledgers cradled in one arm, and rather than her usual rich velvet robes, she wore a lovely, airy dress of light cotton, tied off with a deep violet sash, that back on the Source Synnove recognized had been popular among the Ishgardian noblewomen for summer wear before the Calamity.

The arcanist shook her head to clear it of cobwebs, and warmly smiled at the woman. “Oh, no harm done, I always get lost in my head when I’m deeply involved in mathematics,” she said, to which Dulia-Chai sighed in relief while her ears relaxed. Synnove tilted her head and grinned a little wider. “Would you like to join me?”

Dulia-Chai smiled in return. “I would like that very much, thank you. I have my own work to be doing today while Chai-Nuzz is at the old Stoneworks offices, and I find it easier to stay focused when I am with like-minded individuals.”

Synnove laughed and leaned over to shove aside her grimoires so that they only covered a little less than half the table, rather than three-fourths. “Far less likely to be bothered here than at the Parlor, too, I imagine,” she drawled.

The miqo’te rolled her eyes as she slid onto the bench, setting down her things, opening a ledger and her folio, and beginning to spread out papers before her. “Heavens forfend that a woman enjoys some tea and biscuits in the sunshine while she balances the books!”

As Synnove laughed quietly, Amandina yawned, blinking awake and looking around curiously. The black pearl carbuncle spotted Dulia-Chai and peeped excitedly, wiggling out from under her sister and crawling over her mama’s knee to toddle across the bench to plop next to the miqo’te, looking up at her with huge eyes.

Dulia-Chai gasped in delight. “Well, hello, sweetheart,” she cooed to the carbuncle. “You’re Amandina, yes?”

 _Yeah!_ Amandina cheeped. _And you’re Grammy Dulia!_

Synnove felt a deep, fiery blush crawl up her face and she resolutely stared down at her equations. She had an inkling of how the babies came about with their terms of address for everyone, and she was tempted to have A Talk with them about poking around emotional aether resonance responses. Clever little devils.

However, to her quiet relief, Dulia-Chai didn’t seem perturbed by the address, but rather beamed with open joy. “Yes, I am,” she said, pleased, and carefully scooped the carbunclet into her hands and brought her up to eye level. “Would you like to help me with these ledgers?”

 _Oooooooooh,_ Amandina said, her triad of tails wagging in excitement, _numbers! I like numbers!_

“So do I!”

Quiet settled over the table shortly thereafter, one of the lounge staff delivering a fresh plate of biscotti for them, plus a pot of tea for Dulia-Chai and a fresh cup of coffee for Synnove. Amandina was crouched on the miqo’te’s shoulder, avidly watching as the woman settled to the herculean task of reestablishing the Daedalus Stoneworks into a functional business. Synnove, meanwhile, eventually calmed, and quickly became engrossed in her theorems once more, rifling through her grimoires as she made notations and scrawled half-formed ideas. The only sounds for some time were the scratching of quills and pencils on parchment, the sip of tea or coffee, the crunch of consumed biscotti, and the soft chime of a carbunclet’s question followed by the low murmur of response.

After finishing the review of this section of the programming code at issue, Synnove rose back to proper awareness to a serious crick in her back, and she forced herself to sit upright again, popping her joints and spine, and reaching her hands into the air to stretch. She held it for a ten count, before slowly relaxing into a less achey mess of a hyur and rubbed her eyes, glancing over at Dulia-Chai as she did—and raised her eyebrows.

Dulia-Chai was scowling ferociously, an expression Synnove had _never_ seen on the good-natured woman’s face before this, at the parchment before her, tapping the end of her quill against the table. With her other hand, she was petting Amandina, curled up in her lap and quietly purring as she napped.

“Something wrong?” Synnove said quietly.

“Hmm?” Dulia-Chai looked up, blinking rapdily. “Oh! Well…no, I don’t think so.” She dropped her gaze back to the accounting, brow furrowing. “I believe I’ve run into the problem of staring too long at the same numbers, and now my results don’t look right to my eye any longer. Would you mind reviewing these for me?”

“Not at all,” Synnove said, holding out her hand. Dulia-Chai passed the parchment over, and Synnove held it up, scanning the page quickly. After a moment she hummed, “Mmm, no, you’re fine.”

She glanced over to Dulia-Chai, who was staring at her in open astonishment. By sheer force of will, Synnove fought back the childhood-era urge to hunch her shoulders up around her ears, but that didn’t stop her from squirming uncomfortable. She only stopped when Roksana grumbled in her sleep, and held out the page of sums once more.

“What an incredible ability!” Dulia-Chai gasped as she accepted the parchment back. “I like to think I’m quite good at mathematics, but to be able to do calculations at such a speed! How wonderful!”

Synnove grinned, a bit flustered under the praise though no less shyly pleased, and shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve always been good at mathematics,” she said. “It was why I originally joined the Arcanists’ Guild back home; one of their departments focused much more on the mathematics and geometry portion of arcanima, and that’s what I initially set out to study. But I ended up falling in love with the aetherophysics portion, and, well.” She gestured at the grimoires and carbuncles. “Here we are.”

Dulia-Chai looked at her slyly. “And was part of that love because it _didn’t_ come so easily to you as the math did?”

Synnove tilted her head, rolling the statement around her head. She’d never really given it much thought, swept up as she had been in the awe of carbuncle summoning and Mhaslona’s enthusiasm. “…Actually, now that I think about it,” she finally said, “yes.”

The miqo’te beamed. “How fortunate to be afforded such an opportunity. I can only hope one day that the children of Norvrandt will be able to make similar choices, to learn and study for learning and studying’s sake! Oh, your mother must be so proud.”

Despite her best effort, Synnove _flinched._ Roksana jolted awake, blinking blearily.

Dulia-Chai’s expression shifted to concern. “Synnove? I’m so sorry, my dear, what was it I said?”

Oh, the older woman was too perceptive by far, but as uncomfortable as it was to discuss Isolde Greywolfe, lying would be infinitely worse, and she would not disrespect Dulia-Chai in such a way. Synnove took a breath and let it out again, slowly. “My mother,” she said quietly, “was, ah, actually quite displeased I wanted to study arcanima. My auntie, who was head of the family, always supported me, and _she’s_ certainly proud of all I’ve done and that’s what counts in the end, but I didn’t even tell Isolde before I went off to study, and when I returned home for winter break she was _not_ pleased.”

The miqo’te’s jaw dropped open, disbelief (and…anger?) clear as day on her usually kind face.

The words, normally firmly dammed away in a corner of her mind Synnove preferred to ignore, were pouring out before she could stop them. “Isolde was always a shite mother, honestly,” she said, “Auntie and Rereha’s ma had to _shame_ her into getting me proper tutors, not just the etiquette ones, because Isolde’s plan was essentially to use me as a bargaining chip with other merchant families, not that she actually paid much attention to me. She didn’t even know what my favorite color was. We had a _terrible_ row that break, near screamed the estate down around our ears, and then I stormed out and…I haven’t spoken to her since.”

_Auntie Re says Isolde is a raging bi—_

“ _Langauge_ , Roksana.”

The white pearl carbunclet grumbled. _Not sorry._

Dulia-Chai seemed to regain some of her ability to talk, clearing her throat before saying faintly, “And how long ago was that?”

Synnove furrowed her brow. “Um…fifteen years, perhaps sixteen.”

The look the miqo’te leveled on her was shrewd. “Would you say you’re happier with that state of affairs?” she said.

Oh, that she didn’t need to think about at all. “Yes. Yes, very much.”

“ _Good._ ” Dulia-Chai actually _growled,_ her tail lashing on the bench next to her. “What a horrible fool of a woman. Fate hands her a kind, determined, intelligent daughter and she doesn’t even have the sense to be _encouraging,_ to be _proud?_ The loss is _hers,_ to no longer have such a wonderful person in her life!”

Synnove flushed again, chest suddenly feeling tight, and picked up Roksana to cuddle her, ducking her head while the carbunclet papped her chin with a paw in concern. “Thank you, Dulia,” she said. “That…that means quite a lot.”

“You’ve spoken highly of your aunt before, and I am more than glad to know you had a maternal figure to look to while growing up,” Dulia-Chai continued, “but it certainly was not fair to _you_ to still have to deal with the frankly atrocious behavior of the woman who birthed you. _I_ would certainly be proud of a daughter like you! _Hell’s fire,_ I _am_ proud of you!”

Synnove had absolutely _no idea_ what to say to that, even as warmth flooded through her and her flush deepened. She squeaked in surprise when she felt arms wrap around her, but once she realized it was merely Dulia, she leaned into the embrace, burying her face in the older woman’s shoulder. Amandina crawled up between them to cuddle into her neck, her squeaky purrs joining Roksana’s.

“Thank you,” Synnove said, her voice muffled and watery, though she did her damnedest to _not_ burst into overwhelmed tears in public. “I just… _thank you._ ”

Dulia-Chai hummed soothingly and began to pet her hair. “You are, my dear, more than welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dulia-Chai: Chai-Nuzz and I are having babies!
> 
> Synnove: That's wonderful--
> 
> Dulia-Chai: *slams down adoption papers in front of her* It's you and Alphinaud, sign here.


	29. Blood in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 28: Irenic
> 
> This fill is also a response to a fill from earlier in the challenge from ahlis-xiv on tumblr ([melpomeni_mandy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melpomeni_mandy/works) here on AO3), which can be read [HERE](https://ahlis-xiv.tumblr.com/post/629028954973601792/ffxivwrite-2020-prompt-11-ultracrepidarian).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 27, 2020.

Synnove felt her face twist into something foul and ugly and absolutely capable of curdling milk as she stared down at the letter on her desk. Halulu took one look at her, gathered up her grimoire and notebooks, and immediately fled back to the relative safety of her own office one floor down.

The envelope was fine vellum, waxed to protect its contents, tied with twine and the tie further sealed with wax. It was unremarkable, really, and appeared no different from any other important missive that Mealvaan’s Gate might receive from near and far.

Save for the seal of the University of Radz-at-Han pressed into the wax.

Synnove’s lip curled up in a sneer.

_Mama, just open it,_ Galette sighed from her usual perch draped around her shoulders.

Synnove grimaced, but reached for the envelope and slid it closer to herself on the desk. She wedged her thumbnail beneath the wax seal and wiggled back and forth until it popped off, then slid the vellum from the twine and opened the flap. Reaching in, she pulled out two letters, folded over and individually sealed with different wax and stamps, at which she frowned.

And then raised her eyebrows as she noticed the thicker letter of the two, the one closed by deep red wax with a plain stamp, had writing in a very familiar hand on the outside.

> _READ THE OTHER ONE FIRST._

Now, what in the seven hells was Thaisie Valeroyant up to?

Synnove stared with narrow, suspicious eyes at the letter from the Chair of the Department of Arcanima from the University of Radz-at-Han’s College of Mathematics, drumming her fingers on her desk for long moments as she mentally flicked through a list of possibilities. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh and scowled, snatched up the other letter, popped the wax seal, and unfolded it. A blast of vetiver and lavender bloomed forth, causing her to wrinkle her nose as she read the first few words.

> _My dearest Mistress Greywolfe—_

Synnove dropped the parchment, recoiling with a disgusted shriek. Galette _HISSED,_ rising to a crouch as she bared her teeth and bristled her fur, tails lashing.

(Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the girls peer over the edge of their basket at her, exchange looks, and then go back to their book. It probably said something about herself, or them, that they never reacted much to her histrionics.)

She _knew_ that handwriting, knew that deep blue ink, knew that absolutely repulsive cologne that wafted into her face.

The first letter was in her hand in an instant, wax seal ripped off and parchment unfolded.

> _I promise, Synnove, the other letter is worth soiling your fingers and eyes. And nose._

Synnove ground her teeth, rage roiling through her, but she took a deep breath through her nose for a five count. Held it for another five count. Let it out with a final five count.

“Thaisie, you are going to owe me _so much_ alcohol,” she muttered under her breath. She set down Thaisie’s letter and reached up to stroke Galette’s head and neck and back, soothing them both for a few moments. Then, she picked up one of the half-sticks of graphite from the pile in the corner of her desk, and used it to poke the other letter flat, sneering as she did. Once that was done, she threw the graphite into her trash bin.

Finally, with a grimace, she leaned over her desk to read the letter from Bahram Zarir.

Synnove sat back after the first flowery paragraph and exchanged a confused look with Galette. “Did he actually…?”

_I think so?_ Galette chittered, ears flat against her head.

They leaned forward again to read the next paragraph.

“…Ah. Never mind. He still, in fact, has his head shoved up his ass so far that the apple on his throat is actually his nose. Good _gods,_ how as he gone this long without developing critical thinking skills, or the ability to remember what he wrote in a previous paragraph?”

She continued reading, occasionally muttering comments such as, “My gods, you absolutely disgusting piece of worm-ridden filth,” to which Galette snickered, or, “What in the Seven Hells are you smoking,” or, “Not if you were the last person on this star.” Finally, she reached the end of the letter, and slid back into her chair.

And started giggling.

It evolved into a full body guffaw, rising from deep in her belly, and Synnove bent over as she _howled_ with laughter, for so hard and so long that it became silent heaving that shook her whole body. Galette sighed and rolled her eyes, holding on as her perch pitched to and fro. As Synnove finally calmed again, she brushed tears from her eyes.

“Oh, my gods, that was hilarious,” she wheezed. “Gods, I only hope I’m there on the day his hubris gets his sorry plagiarizing ass killed so I can laugh him all the way to the Hell of Water. What a cunt.”

Still chortling and catching her breath, Synnove carefully picked up Bahram Zarir’s letter with the very tip of her thumb and forefinger, and dumped it in the trash.

“Please remind me to get Ivar to burn that later,” she said, wiping her hand on her pants.

_Yes, Mama!_

Then, finally, she picked up Thaisie’s letter to read.

> _He really is such a prick, isn’t he? It’s a wonder he hasn’t become a victim of Thavnairian politics, but then he’s probably too thick to be a credible threat to any of his relatives or their myriad enemies. Just a shame_ we _got stuck with him. I’m fairly certain the dean was dreaming about defenestrating him and a few other of the legacy children during the last open thesis read._
> 
> _In any event, I thought you might enjoy the attached to make up for the toad’s sorry attempt at civility: a copy of the abstract for Master Zarir’s latest article. It’s still technically in peer review, but you’re a peer, as dirty as that no doubt makes you feel. Do what you will with this._
> 
> _Also, yes, I know, I owe you alcohol. I already have a nice bottle of arak picked out for the next time Thubyrgeim allows you off your leash, or I’m able to attend a Lominsan conference._
> 
> _Kiss, kiss!  
> _ _Thaisie_

“You’re such an asshole, Thaisie,” Synnove said fondly, shuffling the parchment to the second page. Zarir’s greatest weakness as a researcher was that frequently, he _did_ have original ideas…but was frankly terrible at the execution and he outright stole others’ work in bits and pieces and tried to make a whole from it that fell apart if one breathed on it too hard. So, what trash was he on about now?

She read the abstract once. Blinked. Read it again, slower this time, than gave it a third pass.

Synnove set the parchment down flat on her desk, mind racing.

Zarir’s article was in peer review, and therefore it wasn’t public knowledge or in open circulation; the only individuals with copies would be Zarir, the reviewers, and Thaisie. He wouldn’t be able to add anything, with how the University handled its legacies’ attempts at academia, the peer review was mostly for show and the article would be published in the latest issue of their mathematics journal. There would be _no_ turnaround time for Zarir.

And there was no way for anyone else to possibly know what he was publishing. Further, it was incredibly common for academics to hit on similar ideas and develop them in parallel without knowing until the other was published.

Zarir’s idea was similar to that of someone else’s here at the Gate. Oh, not hugely similar, but enough for the mainstays in the field to have a solid guess of which articles either individual had been reading and drawing inspiration from when they became forming their hypotheses. But Ahlis had gone off in a completely different direction and, what was more, her math was sound, the research actually _done_ rather than _theorized_ , _and_ with a high chance of her succeeding and creating a new breakthrough in arcanima. And Ahlis’s work was ready for presentation at the upcoming research symposium. At which a few of the Hannish— _not_ Zarir, if only because the dean didn’t want to deal with the political fallout of letting him set foot in Limsa Lominsa and the resulting murder—from the University would be attending.

Synnove smiled, slow and deliberate and sharklike, a dark chuckle—the one that sent the baby arcanists scurrying for cover and the confirmation from an adult that she was still mostly in her right mind—rising in her throat, as she reached for a piece of fresh parchment and a graphite stick. She was quite thankful now that she hadn’t replied to Ahlis’s note just yet.

> _Ahlis,_
> 
> _I think you are more than ready! You’ve done your due diligence, even surpassed it, in laying your foundation. I still cannot find flaws in the theorems and equations you’ve laid out—your mathematics might need the occasional proofing, but your grasp of the principles is superb, and we’ve all needed a second set of eyes on our work when we’ve looked at the numbers for too long._
> 
> _You are an excellent arcanist, Ahlis. As intimidating as it is to present research, the symposium presents a wonderful opportunity to receive feedback and collaborate on further avenues to explore your hypothesis. And, if word on the grapevine is true, I have no doubt your work will be leaving certain members of our community absolutely green with envy._
> 
> _Give ‘em hell!_
> 
> _-Synnove_

She signed with a flourish and folded the letter into neat thirds, wrote Ahlis’s name on it, and bound it with some of the leftover twine from Thaisie’s packet. “Amandina, Roksana,” she called out as she tied off the string, “would you like to run an errand for me?”

The twins poked their heads over the edge of their basket, the picture book they had been carefully pawing through forgotten. Their ears stood straight up like hares’, noses twitching in excitement—and then they were tumbling out of the basket and darting right for Synnove’s desk. _Oh oh oh, yes yes yes!_ they peeped excitedly. _Errand errand errand we can do it!_

The carbunclets skidded to a halt at their mama’s feet and looked up at her with huge eyes, their mass of tails shaking with excitement. Galette huffed, exasperated as always with their endless amounts of energy, but didn’t otherwise say anything as Synnove leaned over with the letter in hand.

“Do you remember where the Gate’s mailroom is?” she said to the pair, as solemn as if she was attending a Halonic mass.

_Yeah!_

The arcanist held out the letter, and Amandina very carefully accepted it, clamping down with her teeth to firmly hold it.

“Bring this down to the mailroom,” Synnove said, “and give it to Coster, and _only_ Coster. He’ll make sure it’s delivered to its intended recipient! And then, once you’re done, come right back here, all right?”

_Okay, Mommy!_ warbled Amandina, a determined set to her face.

_We’ll be right back!_ said Roksana with a peppy chirp.

Then, rather than turn and trundle towards the door to her office, as Synnove had thought they would, Roksana took one of Amandina’s ears into her mouth, and with a _pop!_ of displaced air they were…gone.

Dead silence, as arcanist and carbuncle both stared at the space the twins had been in just a few moments before, jaws hanging open.

Oh, that was…that wasn’t anything good. Not at all. Nope. Nope, that was bad. That was very, very bad. Oh, dear.

“When did they learn to do that?” Synnove said, faint and bewildered.

_I dunno._ Galette tilted her head. _Can_ I _learn how to do that?_

“Absolutely _not_ , you’ll use it to break into the coldbox for my pies.”

Galette slumped into a full body sulk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not an FFXIV Write without bringing up Synnove's seething hatred of Bahram Zarir. :D


	30. Stormsong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 29: Paternal
> 
>  **SPOILERS** for _The Sorrow of Werlyt_ through the quest "Sleep Now in Sapphire," as well as the Omega raid storyline through the quest "Test World of Ruin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 29, 2020.

A late summer storm had roared up the coast, driving the residents of Terncliff inside their homes and the Ironworks engineers and Resistance soldiers down into the magitek facility. Most of the latter group were in their commandeered bunks—at least those not on patrol throughout the town—while waiting for the storm to pass, but for the engineers at least, there was still work to be done in the warmachina bay.

For a given definition of _work._

Valdeaulin rolled his eyes as Cid Garlond and Synnove Greywolfe’s shouting echoed down the hangar. He couldn’t fathom the reason why Greywolfe was here, for all that she had taken it as a personal affront that she hadn’t been involved in the G-Warrior’s development; something to do with the warmachina’s systems, perhaps, or the recovered pieces of the Sapphire Weapon, currently in one of the secondary bays. He could follow her ranting about aetheric principles to a degree, but the similarities between thaumaturgy and arcanima rapidly ran dry when the arcanist also dabbled heavily in magitek engineering.

From his spot close to the exit out towards the bay, at least, the pounding rain and crash of thunder mostly drowned out the engineers’ row (Greywolfe was standing atop the G-Warrior’s shoulder, yelling down at Garlond as they both shook their fists and waved wrenches at one another for emphasis, the other Ironworks employees ignoring them and going about their assigned tasks as if two of the smartest people on the continent weren’t hurling childish insults at one another). If he closed his eyes, he could imagine for a moment that rain was falling on the stone roof of his home rather than sheet metal, that the cool wind blew in from the dark depths of the Twelveswood, that the voices he heard were those of his wife and daughter. But then something would crash in the hangar, or Greywolfe or Garlond screeched a little _too_ loud, and he would be drawn back to reality.

With an annoyed sigh, Valdeaulin opened his eyes and resumed his work on a map of the region surrounding Terncliff and heading towards Werlyt. He didn’t have to do it, but there was precious little else for him to do with the weather so foul and the hunt for Gaius’ wayward foster children and their Weapons project temporarily halted. And such a map would make the lives of the Resistance patrols easier, at least.

He was making notations on one copy about the local patterns of aether for any Resistance mages—eerily dead, but with the occasional strange spot he could sense of high activity that might be a natural golem, or a pocket of minor elementals—when he heard footsteps trotting towards his position. His ears twitched and he looked up, eyebrows going up despite his attempt to remain stoic.

His time with the Order of the Twin Adders had been relatively short—perhaps two years, if that—but Rereha Reha had been notorious _well_ before she and her sisters-in-arms had stumbled into the notoriety of bearing the mantles of Warriors of Light. Valdeaulin hadn’t served in her unit, but he had seen the fallout of some of her “shenanigans,” both good and ill, and his commanding officer had spoken of her with fond exasperation. Like himself, she was an outsider to the Twelveswood, but for some unfathomable reason, she had been permitted beneath its boughs by the Elementals to live and learn in Gridania.

She hadn’t changed much, appearance wise anyway, since that last time he had seen her, before the beginning of Operation Archon: devious, almost smarmy grin, golden eyes glinting with mischief, pink hear dyed with streaks of white, skin astonishingly blemish free despite a career outdoors that he had once heard a Gridanian noblewoman hiss over in a fit of jealousy and had left him struggling to disguise his laughter as a cough. She still favored sky blue for anything that wasn’t a uniform, going by her leather coat, but her usual matching stockman hat with its jaunty feather was suspiciously missing.

And…was that a _hatchling dragon_ in her arms?

When the lalafell came to a stop before him, he grudgingly said, “Lieutenant Reha.”

“Ooooh, that’s _Captain_ Reha now, _Sergeant,_ ” Rereha said, just shy of cackling.

Valdeaulin nearly dropped his pen. “Dear good gods, _why_ do they keep promoting you?” he said in disbelief.

“Mostly to make me someone else’s problem,” she chirped, easily hopping up onto a stack of crates next to him. The dragonet in her arms croaked reproachfully as it was jostled, but she merely patted it on the head and continued, “I think the plan is to get me high enough that it forces Grand Marshal Brookstone to retire already. I am also, apparently, quite good at getting the job done even if it means someone goes prematurely grey from shock, mortification, or both.”

“That sounds like a quote,” he said.

Rereha held a finger up to her lips in a ‘shush’ gesture, smirking, and waggled her eyebrows.

Valdeaulin shook his head and, to use one of Severa’s favorite phrases, decided to bite the bullet, gesturing to the dragonet. “And who’s your friend there?”

If he hadn’t once been the father of a precocious daughter (one who would be about the same age as this hedonist bard, had she lived), he likely wouldn’t have noticed the very brief widening of Rereha’s eyes in the classic children’s expression of _oh shite._ But he did, and he kept his face studiously blank of anything except polite interest while the lalafell smiled bright and wide—too wide, just by a hair—and said, “Oh, this little guy?”

She held up the dragonet, a yalm long from nose to tail by his guess, for inspection. He had black eyes, apparently all pupil, or perhaps his irises were true black, as well. His head was wedge-shaped, with fan-shaped protrusions on either side, similar in shape to his wings. The closer look showed that his scales were tiny; from a distance he had almost appeared smooth-skined. He was dark green, shading to cream on his belly, and the undersides of his wings and ear fins, plus his extremities, were pink.

The dragonet was, quite frankly, adorable, despite the unsettlingly _powerful_ glare for something so small. Something about his aether niggled at him, though; he could have sworn he had encountered it before, as faint and quiet as it was with its simple _one-two-three one-two-three_ _one-two-three_ beat, but that couldn’t be possible…

“I had heard you and the other Warriors of Light had brought peace between the Ishgardians and the Dravanians,” Valdeaulin drawled, “but I didn’t expect that it had further extended to _babysitting._ ”

“Dragonets do what they want,” Rereha said with a sniff. “He usually stays in Anyx Trine, but occasionally he comes wandering to find us and sleep in our saddlebags and sit on our heads and beg for bacon jerky.”

The dragonet perked up at those last two words, and he craned his neck and head back to chirp at Rereha imperiously.

She sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I got the goods.” She set the dragonet in her lap and slung her pack off her shoulder.

As Rereha rummaged around in her bag, Valdeaulin said mildly, “Does he have a name?”

“Hm? Oh! Yeah,” she said, popping her head up and triumphantly holding a wrapped packet. The dragonet began hopping impatiently, wings flaring, and Rereha shoved him out of the way, but he merely took that as an invitation to hop onto her head, lean over, and croak angrily in her face. She poked his nose and said to Valdeaulin, “He’s, ah, Deeh Sohm.”

His parental bullshite detector, as his Trisselle had called it, noticed the ever-so-slight hesitation, but as before, Valdeaulin didn’t comment on it. As hilarious as it would be to make _Rereha Reha_ squirm, he assumed whatever it was that was causing her to react like someone with their hand in the biscuit jar, it was clearly some sort of Warrior of Light business related to that dragonet. Perhaps it was the child of Hraesvelgr, or Nidhogg.

Instead, he merely nodded, and went back to notating the map. Rereha, meanwhile, hurriedly unwrapped the waxed paper to reveal a pile of jerky and began breaking off pieces. For every piece she passed up to the impatient “Deeh Sohm,” she popped one into her own mouth, apparently as ravenous as her small companion. The jerky vanished completely into their stomachs in no time at all, and both dragonet and lalafell belched in satisfaction. A lick of blue flame accompanied the dragonet’s.

Valdeaulin did not comment, though he did briefly wonder if Lisie would have stayed as irreverent had she grown up. He hoped so, though perhaps not quite as shamelessly.

The thought only hurt a little, this time.

Apparently now that snack time was over, it was time to sleep the food off: Rereha yawned once, laid down with her head pillowed on her pack, and promptly passed out with an inelegant snore, in the manner of the many soldiers and adventurers who learned to sleep whenever and wherever they could. The dragonet, briefly dislodged from his perch atop her head, instead stomped down to her stomach, kneading it like a cat before he curled into a ball, wings tucked close.

Valdeaulin shifted just a bit on his own seat, shuffling back to make himself a better windbreak for the occasional stormy gust that howled into the hanger.

Out of the corner of his eye, the dragonet raised his head, cocking it as he stared at him. And in that moment, the dragonet’s aether signature… _changed._

Valdeaulin very, very slowly raised his head, eyes wide. Before, the dragonet’s aether had felt dim, the faintest hum of that repeating, simple waltzing tune of power, something fitting for a creature that looked so young.

Now, though.

Now, it was a chorus of complex harmonies, of rhythms and tone and melodies that somehow blended into a coherent whole. A symphony of sound; _multiple_ symphonies of sound, rising and falling in cascades, singing of unfathomable love and unimaginable loss and and wry exasperation and all-consuming hopehope _hope_. And it was _heavy_ with the weight of antiquity, nearly crushing with how narrowly it was focused upon _himself,_ pouring and pushing against his very soul, pinning him in place as effectively as a behemoth's paw.

The dragonet stared at him, and now he would swear that fathomless, midnight gaze saw through him, right to the very heart of his being, weighing and judging and knowing and considering. A loud, grumbling _hmmmmmmm_ , almost two-toned with reverb, sounding more like an earthquake than a hum of consideration, echoed in his mind, making his teeth and bones _ache_.

Rereha snorted, though she didn’t wake entirely, and she patted the dragonet on the head. “Go t’ sleep, Dad,” she slurred.

Slowly, so that at first there was no perceptible change at all, the ancient awareness folded itself away, bit by bit, until the pressure began to ease and one symphony faded from eight to seven to six to five to four to three to one; and then the one’s strings silenced, and its woodwinds, and its brass, and its drums one by one, so the dragonsong was muted once more, to that simple cascade of notes of earlier, a single drumbeat: _one-two-three one-two-three one-two-three_. The dragonet blinked at him, yawned as if absolutely nothing untoward had occurred, and tucked his head under his wing to nap.

Valdeaulin stared unblinking at the pair for long moments, before resolutely returning to his work.

He did _not_ want to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally gonna be non-canon crack, but then Valdeaulin decided he wanted to be the POV character and we pivoted away from that. Also?? He said he worked with the Adders???? Like hello guess what now you know (of) Rereha, I'm so sorry but it's too funny to pass up.


	31. Widow's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 30: Splinter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on September 30, 2020.

Ala Mhigo burned.

Garlean airships hung over the corpse of the city like a flock of carrion birds, a particularly foul mockery of the ravens and vultures invoked for Gyr Abanian funerary rites. Dusk was falling, the shadows growing fast and long this high in the mountains, and the airships’ spotlights swept through the deepening gloom, highlighting plumes of smoke or broken towers or the crumbling parapets of the palace. People had long stopped streaming from the eastern gates, now sealed shut, and even as the Garleans had not yet finished bringing the city to its knees, white flags with the three-linked chain were already being flown from the walls.

Angharad stared, but not truly seeing, as the chocobo carriage climbed through the passes of the High Bank, tears still silently tracking down her face.

Their pace was slow, the birds exhausted from the frantic run through the city before the eastern gate could fall and then the sprint across the western valley and the bridges of Loch Seld, on top of the treacherous footing on the sleop of the High Bank as the sun set. Theirs wasn’t the only carriage on the path, of course—Angharad could see more stretching out down the switchback below them, and knew yet more climbed above, not even counting those on foot—but desperate as they all were to escape, none of the drivers would risk the chocobos. One misstep would mean catastrophe.

Injury at best.

Capture at worst.

A shiver caught Angharad’s attention, and she immediately glanced down as Synnove burrowed further into her side. Her niece had gone horribly, eerily quiet during the race through Ala Mhigo as the airships rained down ceruleum fire, absolute terror stilling her tongue, and she hadn’t done more than cling to her skirts for hours as the adults around her cried. But the cold of dusk had finally shaken Synnove from her stupor and she was beginning to shiver violently, even as no noise escaped her.

Angharad pulled her niece into her lap and unpinned her shawl—the silver pin wrought into the Greywolfe sigil now the most expensive thing she owned—to wrap it around the both of them, cuddling Synnove. Synnove, for her part, burrowed as close she could and buried her face in her shoulder, one tiny hand clutching at her dress in a balled fist. Angharad rested her cheek on the girl’s head, sighing quietly, and let her gaze drift about the carriage.

They had shoved as many people as possible as they could into it as they had left the Greywolfe estate: what servants had remained after as many of the smallfolk who could safely flee the city had done so before the uprising against the Mad King, what neighbors that hadn’t been vanished by the Corpse Brigade over the past five years. More had been dragged onboard as they could manage throughout the city, grabbing children held up by desperate mothers, pulling up pregnant women or old crones or wounded men as their husbands and wives raced desperately to the faltering lines, until it could carry no more; shoved as far back into the carriage bed as she was, she couldn’t see everyone, but what she could of these acquaintances and strangers were the same dumbfounded, heartsore expressions, grief drawing deep furrows into their faces.

Immediately across from her were Havardr, Isolde, and Faramund, leaning into one another; Faramund and Isolde were both white with shock, and Havardr, like herself, had tear tracks staining his face, his eyes wide and looking off into the distance. He had fought, desperate and screaming, as Ivar and Tyr had shoved him into the carriage. “Someone has to protect the rest of the family!” her goodfather had yelled over the noise of airships and cannons and the distant sounds of combat. “That’s your job now, Havardr! You have to keep them safe, for me and for Tyr!”

They had exchanged last fierce, bone-creaking hugs, and then she and Isolde had been pulling Havardr into the carriage to make room for more people as Tyr and Ivar raced for the makeshift stockade being built to try and slow the invading Garleans into the Wolf’s Den neighborhood. There would be no stopping them—five years under the Mad King had drained Ala Mhigo of most of her lifeblood, what little left used in the final surge to dethrone and execute Theodoric—but what able-bodied defenders remained would do their damnedest to make sure as many as possible could flee.

Now, her goodbrother and goodsister held hands, vice like, and her nephew was tucked under his mother’s arm and reaching across her to grip at his father, who gripped back tightly in turn. Eydis was leaning against Angharad’s other side, hands clenching and unclenching against her thighs, and she shifted her hold on Synnove so that she could wrap an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. She felt Eydis tense beneath for a moment, startled, before slumping into her side. Angharad kissed the top of her head.

The carriage curved around another bend in the switchback path, giving her another glimpse of Ala Mhigo. Angharad swallowed heavily.

She hadn’t been born there, but it had been home for two decades. She had come to love Ala Mhigo: its sandstone towers and parapets, its bustling markets, its proud people. The past five years under Theodoric’s yoke had cast an awful pall over the city, but even during the worst of the fear, she had had her family.

Had had her Tyr.

She thought she had cried herself dry, but fresh tears suddenly pricked at her eyes at the thought of her husband. His booming, boisterous laugh, his bright white smile, the way his eyes crinkled. The warmth of his arms, the sweetness of his kisses, the gentleness of his weapons-callused hands. His patience in teaching Eydis a new stance or weapon, his comradery with his younger brother, how he would set Synnove on his shoulders and carry her around, to her delighted giggling. His love, his devotion, his bravery.

Gone. All gone.

Taken in a single instant by a Garlean bullet.

Angharad swallowed again, despite the growing lump in her throat.

She had traveled this path a few times before, in her life. She knew that there were only a few more turns before they would crest the Bank, after which Ala Mhigo would no longer be visible to westbound travelers. There was precious little she could do now. There was precious little she would be able to do later, save survive, and keep her family safe.

But perhaps she could do one thing.

The first words she sang were slow and hoarse, thick with her tears. Angharad barely raised her voice, but in the oppressive silence of the carriage, it was shockingly loud. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, but she could sense heads raising and turning to look at her.

This song she had sung many times before, in happier days. She had sung it on her wedding day, laughing and carefree as her new husband had swung her around on the dance floor; at Havardr’s wedding to Isolde, staid and stately to better fit the bride’s preference, though joyous nonetheless; when Eydis was born as she lay exhausted and triumphant with her daughter and the new Greywolfe heir in her arms, and then in following years for Faramund and Synnove, to welcome them into the world. It was a traditional Ala Mhigan ballad, celebrating love and life and all the best things that the gods had to offer.

But, like any traditional Ala Mhigan ballad, if the vocalist sang in a different key, the meaning changed completely. And this one became a dirge.

She had sung it for her goodmother, when Roheisa had passed two years ago, Ivar still too overcome with grief to begin the song himself. She had sung it, in secret with the rest of the family, for their distant cousins among House Wolfe and its other cadet branches as, one by one, the Mad King made their line extinct. Now she sang it for her husband, and for her goodfather, and for Ala Mhigo.

She sang two verses by herself, voice gradually strengthening, before another voice joined hers. And another. And another. Hoarse, out of tune, unsure and faltering, but other voices nonetheless. And then the words began to echo from the carriages before and after their own, too.

Eydis turned her head to press her face into Angharad’s neck and began to weep, huge, heaving sobs shaking her shoulders. Angharad could feel tears soaking into her dress from where Synnove had hidden her own face, too, and she tightened her grasp on both of her girls. Havardr was singing, too, fresh tears pouring from his eyes as his baritone joined the chorus

Perhaps it wasn’t wise to sing their grief even as they still couldn’t be assured that they would reach safety. But the Garleans knew where they were, and were likely confident the new-made refugees wouldn’t be getting far before they managed to catch them, and perhaps this would be their only chance to mourn and to say farewell. So, they sang, the verses ringing up and down the caravan, across the High Bank, down to the valley and Loch Seld in the distance.

And as Angharad sang the final verse, her broken, incomplete family huddled around her, their carriage finally crested the rise and then began the descent down the path towards Mount Yorn and Ala Ghiri beyond it. And Ala Mhigo vanished from her sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That's a way to end it, huh?
> 
> But here we are: the official end, for me, of FFXIV Write 2020, with all of my entries from September now edited and uploaded to AO3! Thanks as always to the degens of my FC, SEEK, for cheerleading and brainstorming throughout September, but also to friends and followers on tumblr, the denizens of [Book Club](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) for their enthusiasm, and of course to everyone here who left a kudos or a comment or made a bookmark! You guys make it awesome to write and share.
> 
> <3!


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